


Regium Maris

by Vesalius



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 17th Century, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, Kink for Clarke actually having friends, Minor Character Death(s), No jealousy angst, Pirate AU, Pirates, This is a Boris-free zone, Treasure Hunting, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9669821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vesalius/pseuds/Vesalius
Summary: Pirate AU:The infamous legends of Captain Lexa and the crew of the Regium Maris have traversed thousands of miles of ocean and land alike. Her name is whispered with the kind of nameless fear usually reserved for sailors’ worst nightmares, and any ship she’s done battle against lies in the deepest, darkest recesses of the ocean. Nobody valuing their own life would dare cross her path, even if the prize was ten times their weight in gold and precious jewels.Except perhaps Clarke Griffin, who is just desperate and foolish enough to risk it.After parleying a deal for her life, Clarke’s lack of sailing experience starts off as a mere nuisance, but Lexa quickly learns that it’s not strength or skill with a weapon that makes Clarke so dangerous. It’s the captivating way Clarke gets beneath her skin and completely disarms her that has the world’s most skilled sailor treading water.





	1. Parley

The disgruntled crowd drew thick hoods over their heads to fend off the rain pouring in sheets around them. Clarke tugged hers forward as well, although she was past caring about the wetness soaking through her clothes. The cold water sloshed inside her boots with every step she took down the cobbled walking path, and her skin was chilled from the autumn storm. Thunder rumbled in the distance, drowning out the voices of the fidgety townspeople.

Clarke pulled the dark fabric down even further, ensuring that its shadow completely obscured her face.

Once the Town Hall meeting adjourned, the rest of her people had fled to the warmth and cover of their homes for the night, converging in a massive throng away from the coast and toward their modest settlement further inland. Clarke’s own mother had been one of the representatives speaking at the Mayor Jaha’s emergency session, but she slipped away into hiding before anyone noticed her absence. She had no doubt her mother would be looking for her soon, if she wasn’t already.

Clarke waded against the crowd toward the smattering of buildings along the pier. They were businesses, mostly, and the occasional visiting sailors and fishermen who stayed at the inns while their ships rested in the harbor. No reasonable sailor would risk taking out their ship with a storm looming, lest they got stuck on the shoals.

At this time of night—and in this weather, no less—Clarke earned a few curious glances as she bumped shoulders with her neighbors. Yet none of them, not even Mrs. Blake and Mr. Green, could see her face clearly, and so they all let her pass without question.

The normally busy walkways along the ports were all but deserted, the ships and various fishing boats secured to the docks to weather out the storm. The rain pounded even harder here, but Clarke knew which of the nearly identical dreary looking buildings she was looking for. Its salt-stained portico still had the same rotting benches it had when she was a young girl. It wasn’t a place she visited often, but the faded blue sign above the door displayed the name clearly: _The Fair Winds Pub_.

She pushed her way inside and was unsurprised to find the place empty, save for a lone barkeep behind the counter sweeping the floor. If he heard her enter, he didn’t acknowledge it.

The drab, dirty interior was just as Clarke always remembered, and she shed her coat and took a seat atop one of the raised barstools, enjoying the pleasant warmth of a fire crackling merrily in the hearth nearby. She shook the droplets of water from her blond hair, which had gone wavy from the moisture.

“This weather’s a bit shit for nightcap, isn’t it Griffin?” he said with his back turned. “If you’re angling for cold brew this time of night, you’d be better served heading over to Oreloop’s.”

“Appreciate the advice, Murphy,” she replied, “but I didn’t come around just for your shitty beer. I had something a little different in mind.”

He actually paused at this, turning to look at her. His dark hair hadn’t been combed in days, his clothes unwashed for at least as long. One of his eyebrows lifted, crinkling his forehead.

“When’s the last time you came around portside anyway? Six months?” he guessed, scratching the short, scraggly beard on his chin. “A year?”

“A year and a half… but who’s counting, right?” Clarke offered him a smile that wasn’t returned. A beat of awkward silence passed before Clarke started to rummage through her pockets. She fished out six silver coins and pressed them against the smooth wood countertop.

Murphy’s eyes grew wide, but he pocketed the silver quickly. “Y—you know a pint is only one shilling, right?”

“I know.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “But from what I hear, five shillings is the going rate for your indiscretion these days. I need information, and you’re the only one around here dishonest enough to give it to me.”

Murphy filled a fresh mug at one of the barrel kegs and placed it in front of Clarke with a scowl on his face. The light amber liquid felt pleasantly cool against her fingers. She took a sip and winced.

“You’re right,” she choked out. “Should’ve gone to Oreloop’s.”

“You know, for someone who’s trying to buy my help, impugning my honor and making a mockery of my brew isn’t likely to persuade me to your side.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Rumor has it, you’d be willing to screw a goat for less.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “That would depend on how hot the goat is, honestly.”

“Hmm.” Clarke took another sip of her beer, trying to temper her reaction. She was able to swallow this time without pulling another face, and she looked at Murphy hopefully. “So what do you say?”

“What do I say about what?”

“Are you going to help me?”

“I don’t even know what it is that you want,” Murphy admitted, shrugging his shoulders.

“I need to find someone with a ship.” Clarke said. “Someone who could be persuaded to break the embargo. I need to leave for Port Royal within two weeks. You know every sailor coming in and out of these ports, and you being—well, _you_ —I’m guessing you’d know who are the more unsavory types.”

“And when you say ‘persuading,’ what you’re really referring to is _blackmail_ , is that correct?”

Clarke shrugged off his pedantry. “Your words, not mine.”

Murphy gave her sad but knowing look. After the request left her mouth, it wasn’t hard to understand her motivations. Anybody in Newport could’ve guessed. Murphy was a lot of things—dirty, unscrupulous, wholly irreverent—but he wasn’t stupid.

“So I guess the Town Hall meeting tonight didn’t go as you’d hoped then,” he deduced, watching the way her expression fell momentarily before suddenly getting riled back up again.

“Mayor Jaha’s not doing anything! We have two months to act, and all he wants to do is write a letter of complaint to parliament. What the hell good is that going to do?”

“Probably slightly better than an unsanctioned trip to the West Indies,” he muttered. Clarke only glared at him, and he sighed deeply in response. “Look—getting caught violating the king’s embargo would probably be the least of your worries. This time of year? All the silk and Spanish gold on the trade routes? That area will be a feeding ground for pirates.” He leaned in closer, and his voice dropped low as he said, “Even worse—rumor is that the _Regium Maris_ was spotted down there just this month. Looks like they’ve left Bay of Bengal early this year.”

Everybody not living under a rock had heard the tales about the _Regium Maris_. Eight years ago, the ship had been the pride of the Royal Fleet, and after one of the most embarrassing failures of the King’s Navy, it was now under the command of pirates, wreaking havoc on the seas. Not only was it the largest and most heavily armed vessel in existence, it was also the fastest. Every ship unfortunate enough to cross its path since now rested at the bottom of the ocean.

The warning gave Clarke pause, but when felt the smooth, rounded edge of her father’s pocketwatch tucked away at her hip, she found her resolve.

There would be a risk involved, but failure wasn’t a certainty by any means. Plenty of merchant ships had made the journey safely before the embargo, pirates or not. And as long as there was even the slightest glimmer of hope left, Clarke knew she had to seize the opportunity. There were other people counting on her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, more confidently now. “I have to try.”

“It’s your funeral, I guess,” Murphy said with a shrug. “Shall I schedule you an appointment with the undertaker before you leave? Or would you like me to pick out your urn and wait until your ashes waft back to Newport on a stiff breeze?”

“I don’t see how you can be so _calm_ about this.” Clarke narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re acting like you’re not affected just as much as the rest of us are.”

“Aye! But unlike you and the rest of your band of merry fuckwits, I don’t have a death wish! Let’s imagine for a minute that you somehow make it to Port Royal in one piece. You’re just going to show up… and do _what_ , exactly?”

“Let me worry about that part,” Clarke told him. She’d already arranged the rest of her plan, and though everyone involved had been sworn to secrecy, she was far from working alone. There was strength in numbers, and some of Clarke’s friends and neighbors had particular talents that would prove invaluable to their mission. “All I’m asking you for is a simple name. Preferably someone in a spot of trouble who might just be desperate enough to try it.”

Murphy didn’t answer straight away, seeming to deliberate internally as he searched her with his eyes. It seemed like Clarke’s request was going to go unacknowledged when he stalked off to return his broom to the cupboard at the far end of the bar.

When he returned, a filthy washrag now slung over his shoulder, Clarke prepared herself for the impending letdown.

“Marcus Kane,” he finally said, surprising her. “He’s a small-time silk merchant. Nearly lost his entire business with the fires last year. Word has it, since then he’s been hiding from the sheriff for tax fraud. The man owes a couple thousand pounds, and if he’s caught…” Murphy made a slicing gesture with his hand at his neck, “… his days as a free man are all over.”

“You think he could be persuaded?”

“His mother’s been horribly ill, so I can’t imagine he’d want to go to prison. Probably would get locked away for the rest of his life. His crew on _The Ark_ only makes port under cover of nighttime. Trying to avoid the sheriff and his deputies, I’d imagine.”

Clarke nodded. It was her best bet, and the fact that Kane already made a regular habit of leaving at night would make a surreptitious escape that much easier.

She fished out another silver coin and tossed it on the counter, where it spun around before finally landing face-up. She stood up and shrugged her wet coat back on before lowering the hood over her face again. Murphy stared after her.

“What’s that for?” he asked, eying the coin enviously.

Clarke headed toward the door, but just before she left, she called back to him, “It’s for your goat.”

 

* * *

 

 

Marcus Kane had been in an awful mood from the moment they’d set sail. He’d grudgingly complied with Clarke’s blackmail attempt, but he’d wailed and moaned ever since they’d left the harbor. “I don’t like being held hostage on my own ship,” he’d complained like clockwork every hour since their departure.

Eventually she’d gotten frustrated and reminded Kane of the alternative: facing the charges against him back home and being stuck in a dank prison cell for the rest of his life. She wouldn’t have hesitated to hand him over to the sheriff if he’d rejected her demand, and she still had no qualms about doing so now.

His protests quieted after the ultimatum, only heard now as he grumbled to himself and seen each time he’d slam the tip of his carving knife into the rails by the helm. Clarke left him alone after that. She made sure to keep out of the crew’s way too, but they seemed content to ignore her at this point. They had other, far more worrisome, matters on their minds.

Like Murphy, Kane and his crew had heard rumors of the uptick in piracy around the Caribbean. His ship carried a small fortune in woven silk. Such a prize would be hard for pirates to resist, possibly worth three to four hundred doubloons depending on the buyer, so he was hellbent on making the voyage as fast as humanly possible. _The Ark_ _’s_ crew seemed to know this, too, and didn’t once gripe about their grueling pace.

Clarke perched atop one of ridges on the deck where the rope gaskets were neatly tied and coiled together. There was a decent breeze and clear skies overhead. The thick leather coat wrapped tight around her body did little to stop the frigid wind from biting at her cheeks and chapping her lips.

By now, it was a little more than two days into their journey, and even though things seemed to be progressing well, she was getting a little stir crazy. They were somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic—where exactly Clarke didn’t know—and they wouldn’t be seeing landfall for at least another week or two.

“You all right?” a familiar voice called out from behind her.

It was far too friendly to belong to any of Kane’s sailors. Seconds later, Octavia shuffled over to Clarke’s side, looking down at the ocean. Other than the daily trips to the galley for meals, Octavia had hardly ventured out of their quarters. The way the waves rhythmically slapped against the hull was new and fascinating to her.

“I’m fine,” Clarke answered honestly. Her words released visible puffs of vapor into the cold air. “Just ready to be there. I know it’s only been two days, but I can’t stop thinking about what they might be doing to—” her voice caught in her throat. She dug her hands deeper inside the pockets of her coat and pulled it more snugly around her torso. It had been her father’s favorite, and it only seemed fitting that it accompanied her on the voyage now.

Octavia sat down beside her and gave her an understanding look. “I know. Raven’s been the same way ever since we left Newport. She was pacing the corridors so long yesterday, I was afraid she’d wear a hole in the ship. Then we’d really be in the shit, huh?”

Clarke nodded. “It wouldn’t just be _us_ though, would it?”

“We’re going to get them back. All of them,” Octavia said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Her confidence, while naïve, was still much appreciated. Clarke offered a small smile.

“I hope you’re right.”

“I know I’m right. We’ll be there before you know it. Once the governor sees the summons, it’ll all be all right, Clarke. You’ll see.”

Clarke nodded, willing herself to latch onto some of the hope that Octavia had in abundance. Her gaze drifted back to admire the vast expanse of deep blue surrounding them. While the sight was beautiful, it made her feel incredibly small and insignificant. The horizon was a smooth line of blue as far as her eyes could see, except for—

“Octavia, what’s that?” Clarke squinted. To their left, she saw a speckle of something interrupting the perfectly flat horizon.

“I don’t know. Last time I checked, there weren’t supposed to be any islands around here.” Her sprightly confidence had now vanished, and she had a kind of wary alertness that made Clarke’s tension return in force. “Maybe we should ask Kane.”

They found their captain atop the highest deck at the bow of the ship, just above the navigation room. He already held a brass scope against his eye directed toward the very spot Octavia and Clarke had just been watching. His mouth was pressed into a hard line beneath his neatly trimmed, graying beard. He either didn’t notice their approach, or he didn’t much care.

“Kane, I think we saw something out there,” Clarke supplied unnecessarily.

He didn’t lower the scope from his eyes. “I know.” He was only marginally less irate than usual. Instead of berating them, he simply waited, hoping that they’d go away and leave him alone. Of course, Clarke and Octavia did no such thing.

Several tense minutes passed before Kane spoke again. He examined the view closely, seeing from afar the details that neither had been able to discern with their naked eyes. Then he lowered the scope, and his shoulders slumped. It was the look of a man being marched to the gallows. Clarke and Octavia watched him expectantly.

“I see blood red sails, three knots south-southeast,” he explained.

“What does that mean?” Octavia asked.

“Diablo Corsairs,” he said, his tone growing low and ominous. “They’re heading this direction now, and they have us outnumbered.”

Clarke paled. _Pirates_ , she thought, supplying the words Kane was too hesitant to say aloud.

Their appearance didn’t make sense though. Clarke knew that the Spanish privateers in particular—sanctioned or not—never went this far north. Not since their peace pact with England. What was going on?

When she passed a worried glance over at Octavia, the girl seemed to read her thoughts. She too went rigid, her eyes widening with realization.

Kane clenched his jaw and steadied his nerves before storming down to the main deck and rounding up his crew, single minded on bringing them to action. Clarke and Octavia moved to follow him, but they quickly lagged behind and were forgotten.

“You! Richards!” he shouted to one sailor in the crow’s nest. Richards had been enjoying a long draft from his flask, and he jumped to attention at his captain’s orders. “Pull down the topgallants, all of them—fore, mizzen, and main—I want us to max speed _now_!”

“Aye captain!”

With every shouted order from Kane, more from the crew followed as they all rushed to their tasks. By this time, the red enemy sails were just visible, and the sight had infused the crew with a fresh sense of urgency. If they’d been busy before, they now moved with a furor that was a little terrifying.

Clarke had to jog to keep at Kane’s heels while he marched around the ship in a frenzy. Gunners sprinted down to the bilge to retrieve untouched stores of gunpowder, and the riggers readied barrels of water to extinguish any flames that would emerge on the tarred ship. This would be _The Ark_ _’s_ first test in battle, and unfortunately it wasn’t built to be a heavily fortified ship.

Kane slowed down once he’d circled around once and returned aft. Clarke and Octavia, slightly breathless, drew up at his side.

“Why weren’t we going max speed before?” Clarke asked, somewhat irritated. Had they been traveling faster, perhaps they would have missed the pirates altogether.

“Topsails will earn you extra three or four knots in a good breeze, but they will rip and shred. I’m not going to tear my ship apart unless it's absolutely necessary.”

“And how necessary is it now?”

“Extremely. Big-bodied merchant vessels like this can get about fifteen knots, rarely more. We’ll need every bit of that speed we can get.”

“So we’ll lose them?” Clarke asked hopefully.

Kane chuckled darkly, and it filled her with an awful sense of foreboding. “I certainly wouldn’t count on it. Pirate ships are almost always lighter, sleeker. Most can hit eighteen knots easily. The Diablo Corsairs’ galleons were stolen from the Spanish Naval Fleet. They were built for speed.”

She felt trembling start somewhere in her knees. How had the day gone from so hopeful to such a disaster in less than an hour? “So there’s no chance…” she whispered. “They’re going to catch us.” And then… Clarke didn’t want to think about what would happen to them when they did.

“They will definitely catch us,” Kane agreed. “Probably within half an hour, an hour at most.”

“So then why bother with all… _this_?” Clarke waved her hand generically toward the bustling crew, who were all hurried around as if their lives depended on it. Their efforts, if Kane was to be trusted, were all for naught.

“Because if we make them put on a burst to catch up, they may not have time to break formation and surround us. _The Ark_ only has artillery on its port side hull. The starboard chambers hold cargo. If we can go fast enough to keep them on our port, even if it’s just on their approach, we can make a hard turn to let them have a taste of our cannons.”

Marcus Kane paused a moment, looking out at the now distinguishable shape of sails in the distance: four ships, nearly identical in size and build. The pirates were closing the distance rapidly.

He must have realized how flimsy the plan was, because the next words he said were: “It’s the best chance we’ve got. If they manage to approach from both sides at once, _The Ark_ is finished.”

Clarke was frozen, speechless at how their fate rode on such a desperate and unlikely series of events falling to their side. Luck, that’s what Kane’s plan called for. Nothing but sheer, dumb luck.

Yet after hearing the plan, Octavia was more optimistic, as always. The improbable, nay, impossible odds didn’t deter her in the slightest. As misguided as it was, Clarke envied her enthusiasm.

“What can we do to help?” Octavia asked.

Kane’s response was immediate. “Nothing. We don’t have enough cannons or gunpowder to justify more bodies in the gun rooms, and I don’t have time to train you on how to man the rigging.”

“Then what _do_ you want us to do?”

“Find the rest of your wretched friends, and keep out of my crew’s way. Get below deck. Once the pirates catch up, they’ll try to board us, and if you’re seen topside, they’ll shoot you on sight. Better to be captured and have a chance after you’re sold to patricians, than to be killed outright.”

“Because being captured by a bunch of pirates is such a _good_ thing?”

“I would think it beats a musket ball to the head, does it not?” Kane challenged, and for once, Octavia didn’t have a response. She glanced around aimlessly, like a better idea would come to her if she could just _see_ it, but nothing sprung to her mind. “Now quick. Round up your friends and get out of here before _I_ start putting bullets between your eyes myself.”

Octavia didn’t take kindly to the threat, so Clarke grabbed at her elbow and pulled her away before she had a chance to do anything monumentally stupid. She resisted at first, but after a few stumbling steps in the opposite direction, she relented and followed Clarke’s retreat.

“Aye aye, Captain Shithead,” Octavia muttered under her breath.

Clarke ignored this, and once they were a considerable distance away, she pulled Octavia in front of her, forcing their eyes to meet. They needed to hurry, and that meant getting Octavia focused on the task at hand.

“Listen,” she ordered, “I’ll find Raven. Everyone else is either in the galley or in the crew quarters. Gather them all and have them meet me in the cargo hold.”

Since _The Ark_ carried silk, not silver, gold, or jewels, the cargo was a level above the crew quarters to keep it safe from unavoidable, pesky leaks around the keel. If Clarke and the others wanted a chance to escape after the pirates boarded, they needed to be as close to main stairs as possible. The pirates would sweep the lower levels to ensure a safe and clear path for looting, and once they descended, Clarke and her friends would make a run for it. Perhaps they’d be able to snag a longboat in the confusion.

Octavia had no problems with the plan. She scampered off to the stairs and disappeared below, leaving Clarke alone on the deck. Meanwhile, the red sails drifted ever closer.

Raven was right where Clarke had left her earlier today: sprawled atop a pile of netting at the forecastle, basking in sunlight while swathed in her thick overcoat. A book lay propped in her lap, albeit with more pages flipped than she’d had hours ago. She’d finally been able to relax for the first time since they’d left, and and now— _this_.

“Raven, we need to go,” Clarke urged her. “Quickly.”

Raven stretched her limbs and yawned. “Why?” She took a glance around, only noticing the crew’s furious pace for the first time. “And why the hell is everyone in such a rush all of a sudden? We aren’t getting to Port Royal for another two weeks.”

“ _Pirates_.”

The single word was all the impetus Raven needed. She practically leapt from her spot, instantly finding the fearsome-looking red sails approaching to their left. Their enemies were closing in for the attack. Raven was normally inquisitive, but she didn’t question Clarke’s insistence to leave. She followed down to the cargo hold below, listening intently to the plan.

When they reached their destination, Octavia was already waiting for them, holding a lantern to illuminate the dark room. Yet there weren’t enough people with her.

Relief washed over Octavia when she spotted her best friends. She and Raven hadn’t seen each other all day, so Octavia pulled Raven toward her into a quick embrace, grateful to see her free from any injuries. Clarke didn’t bother reminding them that the fighting had yet to start.

“Octavia, where is everybody? Why didn’t you bring them with you?” Clarke asked.

A few other shadowed figures cowered behind them, but nowhere near the full complement they’d had when they’d departed Newport. It was only Octavia’s brother, Bellamy, and some of their other town acquaintances: Jasper, Monty, Monroe, Atom, and Harper.

Half the others spent their days bandying their hard earned wages with card games and Nine Men’s Morris. The rest lazed about in their hammocks, only venturing outside for mealtimes.

“I told them to come!” Octavia said defensively. “And I told them about the pirates, but they didn’t care. Finn convinced them all to wait it out in their quarters. Told them they’d have a better chance if they fought for themselves.”

Raven rolled her eyes, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Fucking _Finn_.”

“ _Fight_?” Clarke asked her incredulously. “Using what?”

“He, Miller, and Bryan brought pistols. Sounds like a few of the others did too. They say that if they can barricade the doors to their quarters they can fend the pirates off themselves.”

It was a moronic plan. A few pistols in the hands of amateurs against four ships’ worth of pirates? Escape was the easier, likelier route to survival. Clarke squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose.

It was Raven who finally gave voice to the thoughts in Clarke’s mind. “Finn’s damned arrogance is going to get them all killed.”

“That’s a good possibility,” Clarke agreed. More like a certainty, but she didn’t say so out loud. She knew some of the others, Harper and Monroe in particular, liked them immensely. “But we can’t worry about them now. We need to find out how we’re going to get off this ship without getting caught. Octavia, you remember where the longboats are?”

Octavia nodded. They were fastened down starboard, just aft of the forecastle. It was only a short sprint from the main stairwell, and with some handy knife work, a boat big enough for all of them could be cut down and in the water in half a minute.

“Good. Take Bellamy’s knife with you. I’ll give you the signal—when they go down to check the cabins below, you’ll run topside and cut one of the boats down. We’ll be following you.”

Bellamy bristled when he heard the plan, gripping the sheathed knife at his waist like it was his most prized possession. “Why does _she_ get to go? It’s my knife!”

Octavia rolled her eyes even more hugely than Clarke did.

There were several reasons Clarke preferred Octavia for the task. She was much faster and shiftier than her lumbering brother. If there were pirates below emptying out the cabins, there would certainly still be pirates on the main deck, and when Bellamy was seen—it was inevitable—they would instantly attack him, and their gig would be up. Bellamy wouldn’t have a chance to even draw his knife before the pirates converged on him.

Secondly—and she wouldn’t dare admit this to his face—she didn’t trust him not to abandon the plan if he ran across trouble. He’d had as much skin in the game as anybody in their group, yet he’d been the one that had to practically be dragged along, and in the end, he’d only been convinced by his sister’s decision to go. When they were younger, he’d thrown others under the wagon to save his own skin. Ironically, that quality was what earned him favor with the sheriff—and his job as the town’s bailiff.

Bellamy was simply too cowardly to be trustworthy, and in that sense, his sister was the far better choice.

Instead of spelling out her reasoning, letter by letter, Clarke simply replied: “Because she’s the one least likely to fuck it up.”

While his mouth hung open, Clarke made a grab for his knife, handing it over to Octavia. She smirked, and wisely, Bellamy made no attempt to get it back from her.

Then, when there was nothing else to do to prepare, they waited.

Every thump and creak around them, whether it was from a loose cannon ball rolling around on the floor, pitched around in circles by the gentle swell of the ocean’s waves, or the steady thrum of boots against the planks above their heads, made them flinch. Even the loud snapping of the sails could be heard from down below; Kane wasn’t far off in his assessment that his sails would be unduly strained in the strong breeze.

Based on how close the pirates had been the last time Clarke had seen them, it wouldn’t be long now. Yet nobody knew what sounds to listen for, what would herald the coming onslaught. Most of them had no real sailing experience, and the ones who did had never even left the harbor. What would a maritime battle even sound like? They exchanged uncertain glances with each other, all wondering the same thing.

The extraneous noise around them grew louder. Kane’s people were moving. _This must be it_ , Clarke thought. She huddled closer against the far wall, and most of the others followed her. The shouting crescendoed, and the banging overhead became more insistent.

“Is this it?” Octavia wondered out loud.

Raven shook her head, a frown worrying on her face. “Trust me. This isn’t even _close_ to being it.”

Before Clarke or any of the others had a chance to ask Raven about the ominous statement, the floor seemed to lurch beneath their feet. Clarke wasn’t the only one who toppled to the ground. Octavia fell on top of her, the knife in her hand just barely missing her shoulder. _The Ark_ pitched massively to the left, exposing its port side—with its measly collection of cannons—to its pursuants.

“ _This_ is it,” Raven announced darkly as she struggled back to her feet.

Clarke and Octavia disentangled from each other and pulled themselves upright. As they regained their balance, a deafening blast caused them to snap their hands over their ears. The sound reverberated in their very bones, shaking them to the core.

Cannons.

They were louder than anything Clarke could have imagined, the embodiment of death and destruction. Clarke loathed to imagine what would happen when _The Ark_ was the target, though she knew she wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. She could already picture a cast-iron ball ripping clean through their ship from port to starboard in vivid detail.

Harper, Jasper, and Monroe were beside themselves, and even Bellamy was on the verge of panic. Octavia, on the other hand, kept a ready eye toward Clarke with the knife clutched firmly in hand, awaiting the order to flee.

 _Not yet_ , Clarke tried to tell her with a look.

She felt the first blast hit _The Ark_ before hearing it. The ship jolted, causing a brief quake beneath her feet before it suddenly stilled. She had no idea where the shot had struck, only that it hadn’t penetrated their cargo compartment. The damage may have been catastrophic, for all they knew.

The return shots fired from _The Ark_ were far louder than the enemy’s. Despite the unpleasant ringing it caused in her ears, it was a welcome nuisance to know her side was still fighting back. Every time _The Ark_ got rocked, Clarke winced. She was thankful she couldn’t see the damage for herself, knowing it would only worry her more.

Time seemed to drag on an on, but in reality, only ten minutes or so had actually passed. She idly wondered what Finn and Miller’s group down below thought of the debacle and what their plans were for escaping if the ship were to go down.

“Jasper, how many times do I have to tell you to stop touching my leg?” Harper snapped suddenly.

“I’m not doing anything to your leg!” Jasper retorted.

In the dim lantern light, Harper then whirled around on Monroe, who stood right behind her in the cramped space. “What?!” Monroe held both of her hands up in the air. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Oh flog off, the lot of you,” Harper muttered. She grabbed the lantern for herself to search for the source of the mysterious leg fondling. Instead of barking out a reprimand, however, all she said was a horrified, “Bloody hell.”

The frightened tone caught Clarke’s attention. “What is it?” she asked.

Instead of answering, Harper bent down to retrieve the piece of a packing crate that had been floating— _floating?_

Clarke grabbed at the lantern and held it to the slab of wood as it dripped water to the floor. Then, as if following the trail, she lowered the light. Seawater pooled at their feet past their ankles. It hadn’t risen above their boots yet, but it seemed well on its way. The lower levels were already flooded. If they hadn’t been able to escape yet, Finn, Miller, and Bryan, were trapped if not dead already.

As if matters could get any worse, the telltale sounds of pistol fire rang out above them. The pirates would be trying to come on board shortly. Their enemies were within striking distance now, and that usually wasn’t any more than twenty paces or so.

“That’s it,” Jasper said. “We are completely and totally fucked.”

“Speak for yourself, you spineless shit,” Octavia snapped.

They went back and forth at each other for a bit, and Clarke let them rip at each other mercilessly. She was too focused on the cadence of gunfire above them to be concerned with their squabbling. Now that the pirates wouldn’t be sweeping the lowest levels, they’d be coming for the cargo holds first.

The plan had to change. They would be in danger any way they tried to leave, but now a brief reprieve from the gunfire would be their best chance for escape. Clarke pressed her ear against the door.

The shots slowed to an erratic, halting rhythm, before eventually sputtering to a stop altogether. Clarke hoped with everything in her soul that it was because _The Ark_ _’s_ sailors had successfully fended off their enemies. Either way, even if the pirates had taken control of the ship and were stripping its compartments bare, Clarke and her friends were running out of time. The cold seawater climbed in the cargo hold, spilling over the ties on her boots and drenching her socks and the bottoms of her pants.

“Octavia, you think you can run through this?” Clarke asked, urgency starting to creep into her voice. Octavia nodded fiercely at her. “Good. Because you need to go. _Now_.”

The door was sluggish to open as it dragged through the water, but after the gap was wide enough to slip through, Octavia was high-stepping through the corridor toward the stairwell at an impressive pace. Clarke felt completely justified sending her for the task rather than her brother. Not that she had much time to think about it.

“Are you all ready?” Clarke asked when she turned toward the remaining group. They all stared at her with wide, terrified eyes instead of answering.

Strange voices were now audible overhead, and the implications of what that entailed was not lost on them. The rapidly sinking _Ark_ was now under the control of their enemies. No matter what happened, Clarke and the others had to get off of this ship.

If Octavia was successful, she’d be close to finishing cutting the lines down, if she wasn’t already. Clarke needed to act soon. She left no opportunity for questions.

“Let’s go!”

The water was just below their knees now, and it was harder to move than it had been for Octavia. Their retreat involved wading more than running. However, the corridor was suspiciously devoid of any pirates. There was another corridor for the aft compartments on the other end of the ship. Perhaps the bow was the side hardest hit, making it take on water first.

The smoke grew thick and billowing as they approached the stairwell. Clarke could hardly see where they were going, and her breaths came in painful heaves. When she ambled up the steps, she was finally able to take in deep gulps of air, and the sunlight warmed her skin ever so slightly. Yet the relief she felt at making out from the flooding lower levels did little to lift her spirits.

The main mast had been split in half by a chain shot. Its debris blocked their path to Octavia, who waited on the other side of the ship. It wouldn’t be an easy passage.

Many in Kane’s crew were still putting up a valiant fight to regain control of the soon-to-be wreckage. Most of the pirates were distracted by combat—the others, caught up in their revelry at _The Ark_ _’s_ demise. If they happened to look Clarke’s way, her entire plan was foiled. Neither she nor any of her friends were armed. They wouldn’t have known how to fight even if they had been.

So Clarke ran, and the others wordlessly followed her.

The smoke thinned, and as she stepped over the fallen ratlines and hurdled the broken mast, she could see Octavia waiting eagerly. She stood by a longboat that was uncovered and cut from its fastenings. Now she just needed help getting it pushed off the deck.

Several more gunshots rang out at close range, which made Clarke duck her head down lower. None of them struck her, so she ambled onward. She arrived at Octavia’s side unscathed but gasping, from a mixture of exertion and smoke.

“What took you so long?” Octavia asked. She waived Clarke and the others around to start pushing the boat. It was flipped upside down, as the boats were usually stored on deck.

Bellamy and Atom flanked Clarke from either side, while Monroe and Harper took their places next to Octavia. After one coordinated push, the longboat scooted of the deck and tumbled into the water with a splash. Octavia pulled it back to the hull with one of the ropes still attached to its bow.

“The water’s coming up too fast,” Clarke explained. “Slowed us down.”

Octavia’s eyes flew up to meet hers before quickly rounding on what remained of their group. Bellamy was helping Harper down the rope and getting her settled inside the rescue boat. Atom was next, then Monroe.

“Clarke, where is Raven?”

Clarke did a double take on their group. Raven had been right there with them when they ascended the stairwell. But she certainly wasn’t here now, and neither was Jasper.

“She was right here…” Clarke whispered to herself.

She turned around and squinted through the hazy scene behind them. The mast was a splintered mess across the deck, lying on a net of fallen ropes from the rigging. On top of that pile, lying a crumpled heap, was the unmistakable form of her friend.

Clarke couldn’t say who moved first. Her own feet started moving without thinking, and Octavia was sprinting beside her.

“Octavia, wait!” Bellamy called after her. The others were safe inside the longboat, and he was the last remaining person to board. He clutched the rope tightly before he descended so that he could see his sister over the deck’s edge. “Come back, we need to go now!”

“I’ll be right back!” Octavia called back to her brother. “We have to get Raven and Jasper!”

“To hell with them! Come on, and let’s get out of here!”

Octavia ignored her brother’s pleas and kept running. The pirates were too close for comfort, but they had to help Raven. They found her huddled at the base of the ratlines, clutching her knee. Blood coated her fingers and soaked through her pants. Clarke gently pried Raven’s fingers away to examine the wound. She’d been hit by a bullet, but luckily for Raven, it had gone cleanly through without hitting any major arteries. Otherwise, she’d be close to bleeding out already.

“She’s been shot. We need to get her out of here fast,” Clarke said. Then to Raven, who was pale and breathing in short little gasps, “Can you walk?”

Raven was in too much pain to speak, so she shook her head.

“We’ll help you,” Clarke said. “Here, grab our hands.”

She and Octavia worked quickly to get their friend upright, and just as they each slung one of Raven’s arms around their shoulders to pull her along, another familiar voice wailed behind them.

“Somebody help me! I’m stuck!” A moment later, he was wailing again.

It was none other than Jasper Jordan. He may as well have been sending the pirates an engraved invitation to come and kill them. Clarke sighed and clenched her jaw.

“Octavia, give me the knife,” Clarke ordered, and Octavia glanced at her skeptically. She probably thought Clarke was going to slice his throat to silence him, and while Clarke toyed with the thought briefly, she ultimately reconsidered. “I’m going to cut Jasper loose. I need you to carry Raven back to the boat. Can you do that?” It was a question Clarke already knew the answer to, but Octavia eventually nodded.

Clarke followed Jasper’s howls to find him sprawled awkwardly in a mess of netting a rope on the opposite side of the mast. They were terribly exposed to the pirates on this side. Clarke knelt down and rapped him atop his head to shush him. He’d made the knots around his ankle worse every time he’d squirmed trying to escape, so Clarke made him sit still while she cut the lines free.

She’d just sliced through the last one when she heard the heavy clunk of boots coming from behind her. Jasper’s eyes grew wide as he stared over her shoulder, and his mouth fell open. Seconds later, they were both engulfed in the large man’s shadow.

Clarke’s heart raced inside her chest, but she remained perfectly still.

“Well, well, well… What do we have here?” the man’s heavily accented voice growled behind them.

Jasper whimpered, which only made the man bark out a laugh. Clarke heard the metallic swipe of his cutlass being drawn. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the coming blow.

 _This was it_ , Clarke thought. _The end_.

She thought of her mother back in Newport, of her father—wherever he was—and prayed to whatever force residing in the heavens that they’d both forgive her failure.

Except that his sword never fell. Once Jasper’s foot was freed, he decided to run. The pirate who’d been ready to kill gave chase, leaving Clarke behind.

She glanced around frantically. The confrontation hadn’t gone unnoticed by the pirate’s friends, and the ones that weren’t already dueling swarmed toward her like sharks to a feed.

Clarke ran too. She’d never moved as fast as she had in that moment, her nerves giving her a fresh burst of energy despite her tired muscles. Clarke spotted Octavia kneeling on the deck next to Raven, guarding her from the gang of pirates Clarke dragged with her in the chase. Octavia’s eyes were wide and frantic with worry.

Why hadn’t Octavia gotten Raven on the longboat yet? Why were _both_ of them waiting around like idiots trying to get themselves killed?

Clarke was halfway to joining them when a pair of large hands closed around her arms. A burlap bag fell over her face. She tried to pull away, tried to throw herself on the ground, _anything_ that could have freed her from the iron grip, but it was useless. Her captor was probably three times bigger than she was, if not greater.

So her feet had little choice but to comply as the man dragged across the deck. The sun warmed her icy skin, and even with the sack covering her head, she could hear more activity than before. There was definitely a crowd of pirates surrounding them. Some were probably busy looting _The Ark_ , while she surmised the others were only interested in the spectacle.

“That one there worth a ransom?” she heard a gruff voice bark somewhere beside her.

“I dunno. Let’s see, shall we?”

Suddenly, grimy hands were pawing all over Clarke’s body, divesting her pockets of every shilling and pound she carried with her. Her stomach turned at being invaded with such coarse, bungling touches. They only paused when they reached her father’s pocketwatch, handling it with more care than they had the silver. She felt its weight slide out of her jacket’s pocket and shuddered.

“Pure gold, ivory filigree—” said the man restraining her, “—I’d say this little wench’ll fetch at least three times more than others.” His sinister excitement frightened Clarke, and she tried to lurch out of his grasp while he was distracted.

In hindsight, she realized that was probably a mistake. Clarke found herself tackled to the ground with an enormous weight settled on top of her, unable to move any of her limbs.

“Let me go!” Clarke shouted. In response, the man pressed her cheek even harder into the deck.

“Rigo, stop playing around,” the other man ordered, sounding annoyed by the spectacle in front of him. “Put a gag on that whiny little gobshite and get her over to the brig before Captain gets here.”

“And how do you expect me to do that?” he grunted.

“Do I have to do everything around here myself?” the other man muttered. Clarke tensed when she heard the thud of heavy boots approaching her head. Then a brief silence. “Like this, you buffoon!”

A blinding pain seared at the back of Clarke’s skull, making her ears ring and the ground spin beneath her. Seconds later, the world went completely black.


	2. Blood Oath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Beta for helping out with this chapter!

Clarke could’ve sworn her skull had been smashed open by a ten ton boulder. She squeezed her eyes shut and released a ragged hiss.

The ringing in her ears had dulled somewhat, but it was still there, nagging her and clouding the frantic conversations going on around her. The room she’d been taken to, wherever it was, was thankfully dark. Clarke could only assume the pirates had taken her hostage. If they hadn’t, she’d have already been dead at the bottom of the ocean by now. She hoped that Octavia and Raven had been able to get to the boat in time.

Clarke shifted her body, trying for some semblance of comfort, but her movements were stopped by thick iron bands encircling both her wrists and ankles, chaining them together. Something soft nudged her shoulder, and she shook it off.

“Clarke,” she thought she heard a voice say through the buzzing in her ears.

The voice was distorted, unfamiliar, and she didn’t want to fully wake, so she ignored the sound, keeping her eyes closed. Though she knew it wasn’t safe, she hoped that unconsciousness would claim her again, if only to give her a reprieve from the throbbing at the back of her head.

“Clarke!” it urged again in a harsh whisper. This time, the words somehow permeated the fog in her mind. She recognized its familiar tone. “You need to wake up!”

Clarke eased her eyes open to find another face leaning over her, too close for comfort. Black hair fell like curtains on either side, and she had to squint in the semi-darkness to make out her features. Clarke’s stomach fell when she discerned the smoke and dirt-smudged face of Octavia. Her dark eyes darted over Clarke, quickly assessing her for any more obvious injuries.

“You all right?” Octavia asked her.

Clarke groaned. “Do I  _ look  _ all right to you?” She tried to sound irritated, but the force behind her words was thin, lacking any real conviction.

Octavia watched her closely before giving her an impish grin. “You’re always a right little shit when you wake up, you know that?”

“At least this time I have an excuse.”

“Aye,” Octavia replied with a sharp nod. “Sounds about right. How’s your head?”

She winced at the reminder. “Still attached, unfortunately.”

Octavia smirked and held out her own shackled hands to help pull her upright. Once she was seated, her back leaning against the hull, Clarke took the opportunity to catch her breath and let the wave of nausea pass. Her skull still felt like it was cloven in two, but the ringing in her ears was hardly noticeable now. She blinked several times and appraised her surroundings.

They were in a dark room, the scant light coming from a single lantern hung on the far wall and the few crevices between the hull’s planks that hadn’t been re-tarred. A rusted set of iron bars closed them inside a cage.  _ A brig _ , she concluded. The stench was overwhelmingly foul, a mixture of stale piss and mold.

“How long was I out? Where are we?” Clarke asked. She already suspected the answer to the second question, but she needed to hear Octavia confirm it.

“ _ La Trinidad _ ,” Octavia said. “They brought you down here around two hours ago, and they haven’t been back since. I’m pretty sure I overheard one of them say something about Tortuga, but I couldn’t understand what.”

Instead of elaborating more—or maybe that was simply all the girl knew—Octavia turned away and busied herself over Raven, who lied still with her back pressed against the iron bars across the cell. Octavia wiped the girl’s sweaty forehead with the cuff of her sleeve as best she could with her hands shackled, while a frown crinkled at her brow.

Tortuga was possibly the worst possible destination for Clarke and her friends. While they’d only be a few days from Port Royal, an escape would be nigh impossible once they were handed over to their dealers. The law as written was on their side, yet it wouldn’t be able to help them in that godforsaken place. The sheriff, the mayor, and even the governor were all as complicit in the debauchery as the outlaws at their ports.

Clarke’s hand flitted to the inside of her father’s jacket, and she let out a sigh of relief when her hand grazed the leather pouch tucked away safely in its deepest inside pocket, one nearly unreachable by garden variety thieves. Her father had found the feature useful, and in Clarke’s case, the flat bit of leather inside was hardly noticeable.

As long as Clarke possessed it and could find a way to get free—the transfer from  _ La Trinidad _ to the marketplace seemed the most likely opportunity—she still had a chance to make it to Port Royal in time.

“Clarke?” Octavia called again, this time softer, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Yes?”

“Is Raven…” she trailed off, glancing down at their friend. Her eyes were barely open, a thin sheen of sweat coated her unnaturally pallid skin, and her eyes looked sunken. “Is she going to be all right?”

“She’s in shock.” Clarke wouldn’t know any more until she had a closer look, tools, and medicine. None of those things were likely to be available anytime soon. “What I need is to get her to an infirmary.”

“They should have one of those on board, shouldn’t they? If they think we’re worth enough money to sell, they surely wouldn’t want us dying before they get paid.”

“I doubt they’ll waste their supplies and medicines on us. By the looks of it,” Clarke glanced beyond their own iron bars and into the next cell, which was filled to capacity, “it looks like they already have plenty other bodies for selling.”

Octavia looked worriedly again at Raven. Ignoring the shooting pains in her own head, Clarke shuffled toward them. She placed her hand on Raven’s forehead and found it burning hot. The pulse at her neck thrummed fast and thready. Her leg had stopped bleeding, but the wound was open and exposed to every bit of filth around them.

In her weakened state, Raven probably wouldn’t make it to tomorrow morning without proper medical attention. For all her training, Clarke was helpless to save one of her best friends, someone she’d known since they’d both been old enough to toddle around the neighborhood in only their clouts. The likelihood of that scenario made Clarke swallow hard against the lump in her throat.

She looked away from Raven’s sickly figure and back to Octavia. “I saw you were both waiting by the boat. Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance?” Clarke asked her lowly.

They’d both had ample time to escape. And yet, they were still trapped here too, kidnapped aboard a pirate ship, one gravely injured, and the other likely to be sold with Clarke into servitude to wealthy traders and merchants at Tortuga.

Octavia ground her teeth together. “We couldn’t. The boat was already gone.”

That caught Clarke’s attention. “What?”

“Kane made it off The Ark before it went down. Once he made it to the boat, he convinced Bellamy to untie them, and they’d set off. When I showed up with Raven, they had the oars out and were already rowing away.”

Clarke’s anger flashed hotly. Octavia clenched her fists after she spoke, obviously just as bothered by their actions as Clarke was. Whether Kane had suggested it to him or not, Bellamy had still deliberately gone against the plan, and like Clarke suspected, it had been to save himself.

“Cowards.”

“Tell me about it,” Octavia said. Neither said anything for a while. The only audible sounds were the clinking of chains in the next cell. “You want to hear the ironic part?”

“What?”

“You and Raven—I get it, why you two came. But between my brother and I, he’s the one who has a personal stake in this. Not me. When I left Newport, I went for him and Raven and…” she trailed off when her voice started to break and her eyes started to glisten.

Clarke nudged at her shoulder gently. “You’re worth ten of him, you know.”

The short laugh sounded strangled when it left Octavia’s mouth. She recovered quickly, but corners of her lips stayed curled upward. “Only ten? I’m offended.”

“At the minimum,” she clarified.

Clarke did a quick accounting of the people she’d tried to evacuate from The Ark. There was still one last person unaccounted for.

“Do you know what happened to Jasper?”

Octavia nodded toward the cell next to theirs. “I don’t know if he’ll talk to you. I already tried, but he’s been ignoring me since they locked him up.”

Clarke squinted into the darkness. She could only just make out Jasper curled up and pressed against the bars of the cramped cell. The rest of Kane’s sailors, the few who hadn’t been killed or escaped overboard, were stuffed inside with him.

Clarke raised her voice only loud enough to carry a few feet away. She didn’t know if any pirates were further down the corridor or not, but she didn’t want to find out.

“Jasper.”

He didn’t acknowledge her.

“Jasper,” she tried again, a little more forcefully.

He stirred and lifted his head this time, but when he spotted Clarke, his eyes narrowed and he shook his head at her in disgust. “Well, what do you know? Looks like you made it off after all,” he sneered. “Pity.”

Octavia glowered at him, and Clarke flinched at the unexpected malice. She’d been the one to cut his leg free, for god’s sake. She would’ve thought a little appreciation would’ve been in order.

“What’s your problem?” Clarke said.

“My problem?” Jasper blurted loudly. When he realized the mistake, he lowered his voice, yet it lost none of its vitriol. “My problem is that I’m a prisoner. My friends are all either dead or lost at sea. The mayor’s letter to parliament will be delayed now that we’re missing too, and Maya…” he paused, too pained to finish the sentence. “If all of us had just listened to Mayor Jaha, and not followed this idiotic plan of yours, none of us would be in this situation.”

The accusation felt enormously unfair. “Everybody knew there was a risk involved, a chance that something like this might happen. They came because they wanted to,” Clarke argued.

“You’re wrong. None of them would have gone on their own. We came because we believed the happier lies you peddled to us. They trusted you—we all trusted you—and now they’re as good as dead.” His voice dropped lower, and his next words sent a chill down her spine. “Those lives are on you,  _ Princess _ . I hope you’re proud.”

Clarke blinked, and somewhere inside her felt the weight of the guilt crush her. She looked away from him, away from her friends, away from everyone when she felt her eyes starting to sting with fresh tears.

Because whether it was Clarke’s fault or not, the plan had still been hers from the start. If she hadn’t suggested it, they would all have been back in Newport, sitting in their dens, huddled warm around their fireplaces. Now at least ten of their number had drowned, and with every minute that passed, reaching Port Royal seemed like a greater and greater impossibility.

Raven stirred beneath her. She turned on her side, and her eyes finally drifted open to glare at Jasper, who looked extremely proud of himself.

“She should’ve just let you die,” Raven croaked. It must’ve sapped every bit of energy she had left because her eyes drifted back closed, and she gasped to catch her breath. Clarke stared at her.

“Seconded,” Octavia added. “She saved your ungrateful ass from getting skewered. And if Finn and Miller would have actually listened, the others might have made it off  _ The Ark _ too.”

Jasper recoiled at the reminder. He should have been thanking Clarke, not berating her, but his pride kept him from doing so. Instead, he went silent turned around and resumed skulking by himself in the far cell.

Clarke helped Octavia pull Raven back to a reclining position. Clarke held her there, brushing away the bits of dark hair that stuck against her sweaty face.

“That was a dumb thing to do,” Clarke scolded her friend gently, though she couldn’t bring herself to actually mean it. “You’re hurt. You need to be resting.”

“You might be practically a surgeon now, but I’m still smarter than you, Griffin. And this is nothing.” Raven gestured feebly to her leg. “I’ve cut myself a hundred times worse with a gimlet. I’ll be back up in no time, you’ll see.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Good.” Raven grimaced and tried to pass it off as a smile. “You know there’s nothing I love more than proving you wrong.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she closed her eyes again, lost to unconsciousness. Clarke kept her upright and made sure the pulse continued to beat at her neck. Minute after desperate minute, it somehow held steady.

Sometime later (time was a relative concept by that point), a commotion started overhead. The prisoners instantly froze and didn’t dare make a sound. They certainly held no love for the pirates holding them captive, but they wanted their ship to remain afloat. Another far more deadly fate might be awaiting them.

Everybody waited and listened, but their words were in a language Clarke didn’t understand. That was probably an intentional strategy to keep their prisoners in the dark.

“Does anybody know what they’re saying?” Clarke raised her voice. With all the pirates otherwise distracted, worrying about being overheard seemed pointless by this point.

Her voice echoed in the corridor, followed by an uncomfortable pause.

“Trust me,” a strange voice finally spoke up. “You don’t want to know the answer to that, blondie.” Clarke looked up to see that it was one of  _ The Ark’s _ crewmen, the one she’d seen in the crow’s nest. Richards, that’s what Kane had called him.

“And why do you get to be the judge of that?”

He balked at her. “You really want to know?”

“If you know what they’re saying, then I think we all deserve the right to hear what’s going on. Especially if it’s going to affect all of us.”

There was a general muttering of agreement after Clarke’s statement. She expected Richards to be more affronted, but he relented easily enough. He’d appeared to be the only one who’d understood them, and sometimes, bad news was easier accept when was shared. Clarke braced herself when he finally spoke.

“They’re afraid to say its real name, that it brings bad luck. So instead they call it  _ El Último Barco _ —‘The Last Ship’—because once you see it, it’s the last one you’ll ever see. Of course, you lot would know it by a different name.”

Murphy’s warning sprang to mind, and Clarke had an inkling what ship Richards was talking about. But she had to know for certain. “Which is?” she asked.

“The  _ Regium Maris _ . Queen of the high seas. Once the pride of the Royal Fleet, now a rogue maritime terror. Our scurvy friends have spotted her out to our west.”

There was a collective gasp from everyone locked in the brig. A few more questions followed from some of the disbelieving crew members: Could the great ship be outrun? Did they suffer prisoners? The answer to both was a strong, resounding “no.”

Nobody who’d ever been captured by the  _ Regium Maris _ had lived to tell the tale. Legends of their atrocities had been born and spread through port cities at old pirate taverns. Some of the more horrific ones seemed far-fetched, but there was probably some kernel of truth behind even the most gruesome tales.

After a panicked sharing of some of the rumors—that they boiled their captives alive, or flayed their flesh away from the bones before casting them into the ocean—the hysteria fully set in. Jasper started crying and rocking himself in the corner of his cell. Octavia recoiled as if someone had physically struck her, and Clarke’s hands started to tremble.

The sudden pounding of cannon fire in the distance stunned them all out of their furor.

“Now we’re really dead,” Jasper sobbed into his shirt.

Clarke gripped Raven’s unconscious body tighter and locked eyes with Octavia. Their gazes mirrored a mutual terror, and through it, they could practically read each other’s thoughts.

This time, they both knew they wouldn’t be so lucky.

* * *

 

 

The  _ Regium Maris _ rested proudly in the water next to the remains of the sunken ship. Lexa and her crew had been tracking it and its brethren for weeks, but the others were nowhere to be found.

She studied the ruins more closely through the morning fog. She surmised it had been at least a few hours, but certainly no more than a day. The fish hadn’t yet gathered the courage to explore the remnants of splintered hull and supply crates drifting asunder. Most of the ship itself had long since vanished into the dark void below them, but Lexa could discern three things from the smattering of rubble left behind.

One: This ship had belonged to Spanish sailors.

Two: They had been on a raid not too long ago.

Three: Their ship, by accounts a relatively sturdy vessel designed for maritime combat, had been overwhelmed and capsized quickly. They’d probably offloaded cannons during the battle in addition to their precious cargo in a futile attempt to keep their ship afloat for a few minutes longer.

Gustus furled the upper sails on Lexa’s command, leaving only the fore course and the main lowers to propel them. The  _ Regium Maris  _ coasted slowly through the debris. While she watched, her crew excitedly fished the crates and the collection of half-empty, corked bottles of rum from the sea. More than a few started taking swigs right on the deck once they’d retrieved them.

Lincoln, her quartermaster, had playfully bumped her shoulder and offered one of the dark green bottles he’d found. She recognized the stuff; it had been brewed and bottled in one of the more famous taverns in Bristol.

“Never too early for bumboo, eh Captain?” Lincoln had grinned at her and swished the liquid around to mix it up a bit. “Fancy a drink to wash down breakfast?”

Lexa had politely declined, of course, but she did warn him that if he wanted to keep his post—and his shares—he’d do well to make sure the others weren’t too drunk to man the sails later. There was no further chase to be had to the north, so they’d be resetting their course soon.

As captain, Lexa rarely ever partook in her crew’s festivities. It kept an appropriate distance between them, allowed her to remain objective and preserve her good judgment. Still, the crew’s merriment was vital for their morale and continued loyalty, and because there was nothing else to do, no pressing need for speed or stealth or battle preparations, Lexa didn’t have the heart to scold them for a little early morning indulgence.

While the crew drank and reveled below, her first mate wordlessly approached from behind, stopping at her usual place on Lexa’s right side. They stood alone together on the quarter deck as the Regium Maris waded through the mess in the water. Both watched the scene carefully.

On duty, Indra wasn’t one for idle conversation or smalltalk, which Lexa appreciated. She was a fierce, determined sailor—truly one of the finest Lexa had ever had the privilege of sailing with.

“Someone seems to have beaten us to the prize,” Indra observed, staring over the railing.

Lexa nodded. “So it would seem.”

“Spanish merchants?”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Lexa replied. Indra too had noticed the red and gold tattered fabric clinging to the hull, the last pieces of the flag that had been hoisted upon the mast. Yet the shred of material had a prominent black symbol, which was no national banner. “Pirates, more likely. They sailed under the strongarm and the sword.”

Indra gave her a sidelong glance. Not because the news would have stopped them from raiding. Pirate ships almost always carried an embarrassment of riches on board, but they thought they’d been chasing a group of silver traders and jewelers.

“That rum was brewed in England. Those crates—” Lexa explained, pointing down to where her crew were busy prying off the lids, “—were sealed by the East India Trading Company. They were privateers. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say this ship belonged to the Diablo Corsairs.”

“Aye. Normally I would agree, but everyone knows the Diablo Corsairs never veer this far north this time of year.”

“We’ve been hunting this fleet for weeks. Anya said they were traveling with five ships. This would make sense if they were not private security escorts as we originally thought.”

“Yet there is only one ship here, and we’ve had nary a sight of another since we left St. Mary’s. Anya means well, but she might have simply been mistaken, Captain.”

Lexa shook her head. “I would trust Anya with my life. If she says there were five ships, then there were five ships.”

“I don’t believe she has intentionally misled you, but are we really supposed to believe that this was one of the ships she spoke of? That this lone vessel was the only casualty in a fight of six, seven, even eight or more?”

Lexa quietly pondered Indra’s argument, comparing it to the evidence before her. “If their enemies were trained well, then had the advantage in speed, then yes, it’s quite possible.”

That was how Lexa envisioned it: A quick strike in the dead of night when the guard was low, then a hasty retreat before the other side could muster a counterattack. Ships could be sunk and battles won in minutes with skill and precision. The technique wouldn’t allow any time for stealing, but falling a ship might serve a tactical purpose.

The tense frown lines at Indra’s brow were the only signs that her first mate still wasn’t wholly sold on the explanation. But Indra was wise, and she knew better than to press an argument. Lexa would see to it that the entire crew received their spoils all the same.

“Very well then, Captain,” she said instead. “What orders would you have me send to Gustus? Shall we head back around or stay the course?”

The fleet hadn’t drifted north by happenstance. Something had drawn them to these parts, then something faster and more powerful had driven them away. But of all the allied and rival privateers who raided this far north, Lexa knew none who could outstrip the Diablo’s galleons.

There was either a new player in the region, or somebody was sailing well outside of their designated territory.

Lexa glanced at the water once more, then allowed her gaze to drift up to the towering mast above them. There was a decent wind to the south, fifteen knots, with gusts of perhaps eighteen or twenty. It was the best they’d been gifted in days.

“Stand by to go about,” Lexa ordered. “Have him set our course south toward Tortuga, all sails unfurled. We can easily catch them before they reach port, and by the looks of it—” her glance returned to the main deck where Penn and Ryder were gushing over a spectacular jewel-encrusted candelabrum they’d pulled from one of the crates, “—we shan’t be leaving empty-handed.”

Indra followed gaze down below and smirked. With the promise of more fortunes to come, whatever doubts she’d had about the plan had dissolved instantly.

“Aye, Captain. Consider it done.”

* * *

 

 

With an extra burst of wind behind them, Lexa and her crew caught up to the wayward fleet in just four days’ time.

The boatswain, Gustus, hadn’t needed to threaten anyone to maintain their furious pace. After a taste of the riches the corsairs possessed, her crew was eager to collect more. A prize that great would feed many of their families for months. For others, it would be spent in just a few weeks by gambling, whoring, and drinking.

The four ships had collectively tried to speed away once they’d caught sight of the  _ Regium Maris _ over their rudders, but the attempts were futile. Lexa’s ship was the fastest in existence on the open ocean.

She stood next to the helm and waited. Her crew manned their assigned stations, itching for the onslaught to begin.

“It looks as if they’ll try to slow us down with their rear formation, so that the front ships may escape,” Gustus said next to her.

His hulking figure was best suited for brawling or lifting heavy barrels of gunpowder over his shoulder like they were sacks of flour, but instead he would be manning the helm and directing the ship while Lexa issued orders down below.

“Then they’re smart sailors, as I expected,” Lexa replied. “Their most valuable cargo is at the head of their formation. I would have done the same had our positions been reversed.”

“What would you have me do, Captain? We have the power to overtake the rear guard, but when we slow down to engage, the others will try to escape. We may lose them.” He sounded worried by the prospect, and Lexa knew why. The rest of the crew would lose morale if they didn’t come away with a full haul.

“We won’t be stopping to overtake the rear guard. Keep her moving full speed ahead.”

“But Captain—”

“We’ll strike them with the bow cannons first, then I’ll have Ryder and Lincoln’s teams dispatched to commandeer the ships. Then Indra and I will continue to take on the front guard ourselves.”

“Aye,” he nodded. He was more at ease with the idea, though he still scratched at his dark, bushy beard curiously. “Do Ryder and Lincoln know of your plans?”

“They will soon enough.”

“I suspect Ryder’s crew will be tough to convince.”

Lexa clenched her jaw muscles, briefly twitching them to the side. She’d fight for any member of her crew, but some tested her patience more than others. Ryder led a contingent of starboard gunners, and his best friend and partner in crime, Quint, was the ship’s master carpenter.

They were an integral part of the team, but their loyalty only extended as far as the riches they stole. If the loot ever became scarce or they got better offers elsewhere, Lexa suspected they’d be the first to desert.

“If they enjoy their hides firmly attached to their backs, they will do as they’re told—preferably with a spring in their step and a smile on their face.”

Gustus’s mouth twitched into a barely visible grin behind his beard, and he let out a light chuckle. “Aye, Captain. As you wish.”

Ryder of course made no secret of his dislike for Lexa’s plan—he’d rather be blasting apart their enemies with cannon fire than taking them on in close combat—but he grudgingly agreed upon hearing the threat implied in her tone. Lexa hadn’t been forced to punish a crew member in years, before Ryder ever went on account, but he’d still heard rumors. Nobody wanted to be on the receiving end of Lexa’s retribution.

Lincoln, on the other hand, agreed without question or hesitation. Lexa had been joking with Gustus, but the man actually did smile and bound away like she’d given him the greatest gift in the world.

Lincoln was a fool—loyal, skillful, and deadly—but a fool all the same. Lexa smirked as she took up her place at the forecastle. Indra was already there waiting with one hand at her scabbard, wearing her usual murderous scowl. Nobody else from the crew had dared to approach her.

“Has a rat crawled into your coat and died, Indra?” Lexa asked.

Indra ignored the jibe, and if possible, turned even surlier than before. “I’ll be happier once this is over and done with, Captain. It’s been a long three weeks at sea. This cold is doing my knee no favors.”

Lexa nodded. They’d be returning south, where the weather was warmer and sunnier, although they’d be susceptible to the usual autumn storms until they arrived.

“The good news is we’re still well provisioned,” Lexa said. “After today, we can head to Tortuga, rest and gather our bearings. If the spoils are as expected, we may not need to go on another raid for a few weeks.”

“Aye. ‘Tis like music to my ears, Captain.”

“I see that you’ve been practicing your sarcasm. You could still use some work.”

At that, Indra smiled. It was only the third time Lexa had seen it in the past eight years. The only other times she’d witnessed Indra looking so openly happy had involved others getting injured. “I shall keep that in mind,” Indra said.

They waited in silence as the gap between the ships closed. They were rapidly approaching striking distance from the bow, and it wouldn’t be much longer. She retrieved her brass telescope from her waist pocket and watched more closely.

Only minutes left now…

The yelling from the other side was just audible over the breeze, and there were faint cracks of pistol fire in the distance. They were panicking and wasting valuable ammunition. The tiny shots blew off course and splashed uselessly in the water while the much larger  _ Regium Maris _ bore down upon them.

“There are still four cannons on the bow?” Lexa asked.

“Yes, Captain. Two each on starboard and port,” Indra said.

“Have them run a shot across the stern.”

Indra shouted the command to the gunners stationed below them, and seconds later, a thunderous blast shuddered the deck below them. Lexa kept her balance easily and watched as the enemy fighters skittered to the far end of the ship. The vacancy would give Ryder and Lincoln easier passage aboard.

“Now fire at will!” Lexa ordered.

As soon as she gave the word, the air around them reverberated with a chorus of cannons. After one was fired, they reloaded and fired again and again and again. One by one, the shots found their mark. The iron cannonballs obliterated the rear decks, and after both sides used their supply of heated shots, they were aflame as well.

Lincoln and Ryder readied their teams. They hung in a line formation along the netting between the masts, gripping their ropes with both hands. When they had position, they would swing across to board the enemy ship. The smoke would provide them cover as they landed.

Lexa drew her scabbard and held it in the air for the signal. She watched their position, and once they had favorable position, she thrust it down. The raiding teams leapt across into the cloud of smoke. They emerged unscathed and charged at the enemy sailors, filling the air with the sound of clashing steel.

But the  _ Regium Maris _ wasn’t immune to attack. While they barreled on at full speed, their enemies slowed, and as the ships passed, a few blows landed against the hull. These weren’t catastrophic, but they’d require repairs before making port.

Once Lexa’s crew overtook the crippled ships, her crew set their sights on the final two. This would be traditional warfare fought from both sides. From what Lexa has seen of the galleons, her ship would have the advantage here as well. They had over twice the gunports on each side with two levels of cannons to wreak havoc both high and low. Striking low would sink the ship faster, and striking high would cause collateral damage that would limit their ability to fight back.

The  _ Regium Maris _ rocked in the sea, both from the force of its own cannons, as well as the few shots it weathered in the process. Lexa had accounted for nine in all, but her ship still sat strong in the water.

The galleons were not so lucky. They slowed, the sea line rose against their hulls, and when the smoke curled up and billowed into the afternoon sky, some of the less brave crew members started making their escapes overboard. They’d realized their fate, as the others had before them. Rather than face certain death at the hands of their captors, they opted to drown at sea.

When the enemy gunners abandoned their posts, the battle was essentially over. Only a few minor scuffles would break out afterward. Her crew had to hurry and retrieve the valuables before ships went under.

Those stationed topside awaited her orders, swords and pistols clutched tightly in their hands. They were greedy for blood and gold, and Lexa wouldn’t keep them waiting.

“Clear them out. Take the longboats,” Lexa said. “Bring everything of value you can find!”

They cheered and hurried across to strip the sinking ships bare. Indra usually coordinated this part of the mission, and Lexa nodded to her first mate to take over. Indra dipped her head in to acknowledge the request and began shouting instructions.

Lexa marched back aft to join her trusted boatswain. He grinned at her approach. The remaining riggers rotated the booms, and the ship lurched to make its turn about.

“A solid forty minutes,” Gustus mused. “I must say, I think that’s the most action we’ve seen in at least a quarter year. It’s good to know you haven’t lost your touch.”

“We don’t know anything yet. Hopefully the ships don’t sink before we take their plunder,” Lexa said.

“It’ll be fine, Captain. Indra knows how to light fires beneath the crew’s asses that burn hotter than the depths of hell.” While their ship turned, he glanced over his shoulder at the pair of smoke trails headed their way. The red and gold flags were taken down, and the red sails were tattered and in pieces. “Looks like Lincoln and Ryder were successful also,” he said proudly, as if there’d ever been any doubt.

Lexa nodded. “They’ve fought well.”

“Shall I steady the ship?”

“Aye.” Lexa clapped Gustus hard against the shoulder. Even if he hadn’t been wearing several layers underneath his leather overcoat, the friendly gesture wouldn’t have hurt him. “Furl the sails and drop the sea anchor. Once the spoils are aboard, prepare our course for Tortuga. We can divide the shares tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate.”

* * *

 

 

A large map spread across the desk in the seamaster’s cabin. Lexa brushed her long fingers over their current location. If the weather cooperated, they could make port in Tortuga in as little as two more weeks.

She tallied their latest coordinates and recorded them shorthand in her logbook. It was a mapping code that was quickly becoming a lost art because navigators couldn’t run the long calculations necessary to plot their next headings. But Lexa had known how since the precocious age of twelve, and it had never failed to impress others. She marked the page and returned the book to the drawer below her desk.

Someone pounded at the double doors from outside, rattling them on their hinges. Lexa wordlessly glanced and saw a blurred silhouette through the windows.

It wouldn’t be Indra, Gustus, and Lincoln. Her highest three officers were the only ones she allowed to freely enter the main cabin. In contrast, her personal quarters on the level below were off limits to everyone.

“Come in,” she said to the closed door. Moments later, the doors banged open, and one of her battle haggard sailors ambled inside. Like many of his fellow gunners, his long beard had been tamed with braids to keep it from catching fire from cannon sparks. His reappearance meant that the enemy ships were cleared. “Ryder, what news from on deck?”

“ _ La Castilla _ ,  _ Neptuno _ , and  _ Hercules _ have been taken, Captain,” he said. His usual glee after a victory was missing, and Lexa suspected he was still sour over being ordered on the raid. “Quint’s team is nearly finished with  _ La Trinidad _ . The last boat’s on the way.”

“Good. Tell Gustus to ready the sails. I will be there shortly.”

“And what would you have me do with the captives?” A hint of excitement edged back into Ryder’s voice, and Lexa didn’t have to work hard to imagine why.

“I have no use for rival pirates or any of the king’s allies aboard this ship. As usual, they will face the plank or the blade.” She refastened the belt carrying her own sword over the top of her coat. “Better make it quick. From what I hear, a celebration is in order.”

“But they are neither, Captain.”

She paused, glancing up at Ryder. “Pardon?”

“All of the Corsairs who survived the fight escaped overboard. These idiots were locked in the brig. They must be worth a fortune if our friends were saving them for ransom.”

“Did the captain’s quarters contain any ransom notes?”

“Not that we saw, no.”

Lexa nodded. Without ransom notes, some sort of documentation that there was money being offered their heads, they probably weren’t going to be ransomed at all. They were going to be sold as property to the highest bidder, and knowing where the Diablo Corsairs made port, that would probably be one of the worst fates imaginable, especially if any of the prisoners were women.

Commanding pirates required a certain amount of moral flexibility, but human trafficking was one moral line that Lexa never dared cross herself.

“Did they say where they were from?” she asked.

“Newport, Captain.”

“Newport?” Apparently the Corsairs had been busy quite recently. “Did they say how they came across pirates so close to home?”

“They don’t seem interested in talkin’.” Ryder shook his head and drew one of the curved daggers from a leather strap across his chest. He fondled its handle for a moment. “Though I imagine showin’ em the color of their insides might loosen up their tongues a bit.”

Lexa watched him carefully. He meant to torture the prisoners, and as she watched him relish the idea, she knew he would make a scene of it. He seemed to enjoy the prospect of causing them pain more than the pocketfuls of gold he’d won today, and that made her uneasy.

“I will tend to the prisoners,” Lexa said. Normally she would’ve delegated the task, but Ryder’s bloodlust needed to be checked before he became too unruly. “Return the rest of the gunpowder kegs to the bilge, and make sure that they are all properly sealed this time. If we have any more seawater ruining our supplies, the next barrels will be coming out of your shares.”

Ryder’s expression fell. “Aye, Captain.” He skulked away when Lexa dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

Lexa smoothed her coat and stepped back outside into the chilly air.

The prisoners were lined up on their knees across the main deck, their hands and feet bound together by thick chains. There were nine men in all by Lexa’s count. Lincoln stood to their backs, his sword drawn as he stood guard. Meanwhile, Indra stood to their front. Her glower was enough to put a fright into even the most hardened of sailors. A few tried to keep their chins high, but most of the others visibly trembled.

Lexa turned up her nose in disgust at the one who sobbed uncontrollably and had what looked like a urine stain at the front of his trousers. She walked in front of him and drew her cutlass, and he cried harder. They were soft, the lot of them.

“How did you come by the Diablo Corsairs?” Lexa asked loudly. They all collectively flinched at the sound of her voice, but they colluded together to ignore the question.

She gripped the handle of her cutlass more tightly. Considering their situation, she was prepared to be lenient with them, something she hadn’t done since she’d taken over as captain, but she wouldn’t tolerate insolence. Behind her, Indra also bristled at their refusal to cooperate.

“You will speak, or I’ll have a pool of your blood decorating my floors.” Lexa walked to the middle of the line and raised her blade to rest against one man’s neck until it left a thin line of red. The move left him no choice but to answer. “You. What’s your name?”

He swallowed nervously. “Connor, ma’am.”

“Connor.” She relieved some of the blade’s pressure from his neck but kept it hovering near his pulse point. “It’s your turn first. How did you come by the Diablo Corsairs?”

He glanced uncertainly at his fellow prisoners. They all were too afraid to meet his gaze. “We lost our ship,” he admitted, his voice shaking. “They sunk us, captured us, then kept us hostage.”

“Your ship?”

“ _ The Ark _ .”

Lexa glanced back at Indra. The murderous look on her first mate’s face had faded somewhat, but Lexa could tell she didn’t have much patience left. Had it been any other time, Lexa would’ve already had them keelhauled.

“I know every ship that’s ever sailed outside a hundred miles of the coast.” Lexa said, turning back to the prisoner. “And I’ve never heard of  _ The Ark _ .”

His eyes grew wide. “I speak the truth, you must believe me!”

Lexa glared at him, her sword at his neck, waiting for his strength to break—and break it did. He couldn’t hold her stare for another ten seconds before he collapsed in a quivering heap. Lincoln jerked him back to an upright position by his chains.

Lexa shook her head and rejoined her first mate by the railing. “May I offer a piece of advice, Captain?” Indra spoke lowly.

Lexa nodded. “Of course.”

“Just kill the whelps and be done with it. The crew is starting to grow restless. The longer this is drawn out, the more they’ll demand a bloody spectacle.” One quick look around, and Lexa saw that a growing crowd was indeed gathering on the upper decks. The newcomers were all watching on with vested interest.

“It’s part of our code. Remember?” Indra added. “Be it surrender or capture, we give no quarter to the enemy.”

“They did not fight us. They  _ belonged  _ to the enemy, Indra. These prisoners were merely part of their plunder.”

“With all due respect, Captain, the enemy of my enemy is still  _ very  _ much my enemy. We have no use for them aboard this ship. They’ll only invite trouble.” She watched as Lexa deliberated, sensing her reluctance. “What would you do with them otherwise? You know they can’t be allowed to run aboard freely. None of the crew will stand to be their babysitters.”

“I know that.”

“Then what’s plaguing your mind?”

“I don’t know,” Lexa shrugged. In normal circumstances, she’d have a reason to end their lives, but this was a situation she’d never found herself in before. “It feels strange. They’ve already faced punishment. We’re condemning them to another for happening across the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Aye, if it’s your conscience you’re worried about, I’d be more than happy to kill them for you. It’d be as quick and painless as falling asleep.” She gripped the handle of her cutlass, which was honed sharper than a serpent’s tooth. Lexa had no doubt she’d follow through on that promise.

“Your sacrifice on my behalf is truly touching.”

Indra opened her mouth to respond, but came up short when shouting interrupted them. A ruckus had broken out nearby, and while multiple pistols had been taken out and aimed, nobody dared fire into the chaos and risk hitting one of their own.

Lexa’s carefully honed instincts took over, and her cutlass went to the readied position.

While they’d been talking, one of the prisoners had quietly looped their chain around Lincoln’s foot and used it to yank him to the ground. The others, galvanized by their friend’s actions, either scrambled to escape or started joining in to beat Lincoln senseless.

The crew cheered as Lexa swooped forward. A few quick slashes of her sword cut down the three who’d been pummeling him. The others hadn’t gotten far with their ankles shackled, so she chased them down and dropped them one by one. When the last runaway collapsed to the ground, she pressed her boot against his back while she yanked her blade free from in between his ribs.

“Captain!” Lincoln’s voice called her in a panic. Lexa whirled around. He was trapped in a headlock with his own knife held against his neck.

His captor had a desperate, crazy look in his eyes; Lexa scowled when she recognized which of the crimps was threatening her quartermaster. Of course it had been the one who’d been crying and pissing himself. She stilled, knowing that any sudden move would cause the young man to kill Lincoln in a panic. She raised a hand to the rest of her crew to do the same.

The insufferable little maggot actually had the gall to smile at that, and Lexa’s blood boiled hot and angry beneath her skin.

“One wrong move, and he’s dead!” he shouted, pulling against his chains.

Lexa stayed perfectly still. “What is it that you want…?” she trailed off, not knowing his name.

“Jasper.” He gripped Lincoln’s neck tighter against his forearm, crushing his windpipe. Lexa’s fists clenched as she listened to his broken gasps. “And what I  _ want  _ is a boat. You’re going to let me off this ship right now, or your friend is gonna get it.”

Lexa shifted the sword in her hand.

“Put it down!” Jasper cried out. This time, when his grip tightened around Lincoln’s neck, he stopped breathing, and his face went a dark shade of purple.

Lexa clenched her jaw, but she did as he requested. She leaned forward and sat her cutlass gently on the wooden planks at her feet, but as she straightened her posture, she surreptitiously loosened the dagger strapped against her forearm. Its hilt rested at the base of her palm, the blade staying hidden beneath her coat sleeve.

“The boats are on starboard,” Lexa said with a practiced calmness. He wouldn’t be able to work the pulleys with his hands and feet bound, not that she was planning on letting him go anyway. “You may take one and leave at your leisure. Just let him go.”

“You know what? I don’t think I will.” Jasper gave her a sinister smile.

“Then you may only blame yourself for your death.”

“What?”

Before Jasper had a chance to even blink, Lexa dropped the hilt of her dagger into her fingers, reared her arm back, and let it fly. The boy’s eyes went wide and glazed over when the knife sunk several inches deep into his skull. He fell backward and landed with a resounding thud. Lincoln gulped for air, and her crew cheered—

All of them except for Indra, who was sporting her best “I told you so” expression. Lexa smirked at her first mate, and she swore the vein at the woman’s temple nearly burst. She picked up her cutlass and wiped the blade clean against one of the dead men’s shirts.

“Oi! Got some more for ya’ Captain!”

_ Quint _ . Even after the slaying, he sounded far too jubilant for Lexa’s liking. She glanced quickly at Indra, nodding for her to follow. By the time they reached him, he was positively giddy.

“What ho, Quint?” Lexa asked.

“Found a coupla’ more stragglers on the lower deck,” he said, grinning mischievously. “I think you’ll approve, Captain. They’re all three ripe lil’ wenches just the way you like ‘em.”

Lexa felt her stomach drop. Their enemies had kept female prisoners after all. There was no telling what sort of hell they’d been put through already, or what kind of hell they would’ve faced when they were eventually sold. Beside her, Indra growled, having already seen enough captives for the day. Lexa assumed Quint was trying his best to rile her up, so she didn’t rise to his teasing.

She made her face an unreadable mask. “Are they armed?”

“Not exactly.”

“Speak plainly, Quint,” Lexa retorted. “They’re either armed or they’re not. There is no in between.”

“Fine.” He seemed put out by Lexa’s refusal to play along. “They ain’t got no weapons. But they had this with ‘em,” he said as he proffered a folded leather pouch with an official seal on its front, “and that don’t look like no bill of lading to me.”

Lexa slid her finger beneath the seal and pried it free. The first page bore the signature of someone named Thelonious Jaha, but it was the addressee that made her hand freeze over the page and her pulse quicken. Her eyes skimmed the rest of the words, and she frowned deeply. These prisoners weren’t entirely as innocent as they seemed.

She showed the papers to Indra, who went wide-eyed when she read the contents. They both exchanged a worried look. Quint, who couldn’t read and wouldn’t have appreciated the significance of the words even if he could, stood by obliviously.

“Where are they?” Lexa asked in a clipped tone.

“Over with Penn by the sterncastle.”

“I want them brought to the seamaster’s cabin at once. They are not to be harmed—not until they answer for this.” Lexa gestured to the folded letters in her hand.

“Aye, Captain.” He scurried away, pleased with himself.

Once he’d left, Lexa quickly sifted through the rest of the papers. It was mostly legal jargon, some of the terms unfamiliar, but she thought she understood the general gist. Indra accompanied her as they headed back to the seamaster’s cabin. They stepped over the bodies spread across the deck, and with a snap of her fingers, she had swabbies rushing to clear the mess.

“I don’t like this, Captain,” Indra muttered once they were out of earshot.

“Neither do I,” Lexa admitted, “but we must get to the bottom of it.”

The double doors to her cabin were closed, which unsettled Lexa. She pushed them open at once and barged inside with Indra on her heels. The sight she was greeted with confused her at first. Quint had told her there were three prisoners, and on initial glance, she only accounted for two. A blonde and a brunette, both looking a little worse for wear with their dirty faces and worn clothing.

The last was unconscious with a badly bloodied leg, sitting propped against the far well next to her co-conspirators. They’d put as much distance as humanly possible between themselves and Quint, which—Lexa having known him for years—was perfectly understandable.

They observed her entrance with wide, fearful eyes. They weren’t armed, and Lexa could tell with one look that they weren’t physically dangerous. Not to her at least. Judging from the way they carried themselves, none of them had fought a single day in their lives.

“Unchain them,” Lexa ordered.

“What?” Quint grunted.

Indra reached for her arm, but Lexa pulled away. “Captain—”

“You heard what I said!” she nearly shouted. “Unlock their bonds, and go wait outside. I will tend to this myself.”

Quint eventually complied with the order, but he didn’t bother trying to hide his distaste. The prisoners—at least the ones who were still conscious—recoiled when he advanced and turned their faces away while he worked the tiny key into the lock. He was a bit more rough with the cuffs than necessary, and once they were freed, the two young women rubbed at their sore wrists.

He scowled at the captives one last time before he left to wait on the other side of the door. Indra lingered at her captain’s side. Besides the obvious, Lexa suspected she had another reason for wanting to be present.

“I should stay with you for protection,” Indra said to Lexa, eying them uneasily. “They can’t be trusted.”

“If I cannot handle two and a half untrained, unarmed landsmen by myself, I should think myself rather unfit to remain in charge of this ship.” Indra was unmoved by the statement, so Lexa gave her a look that allowed no further room for argument. “Go, Indra. That’s an order.”

Indra relented, but on her way out, she stopped by the two captives and their unconscious friend. “If you so much as think about stepping a single toe out of line, the death I’ll bring upon you will make men’s blood run cold for a hundred years. Am I understood?”

The two weather-beaten women nodded swiftly. Then they swallowed in unison, completely terrified.

Lexa pressed her lips into a thin line. She needed information, and to get it, she had to get them talking. If these people had connections with whom she feared, they needed to be handled carefully. “That’s enough Indra,” she said. “I will handle it from here.”

Her first mate left reluctantly but made sure that the door slammed behind her, making the other women jump. Lexa clenched her jaw; no matter what happened, she’d be having a talk with her first mate after this was all said and done. She rounded her desk and unfastened her sword belt and outer coat, hanging them on the coat rack before taking her usual seat in the luxurious leather seat behind it.

Several small knives were still attached to her vest, and her pistol was visible where it stayed holstered at her waist. The prisoners watched her carefully, too afraid to move or utter a single word.

“My name is Captain Lexa.” She kept her posture authoritative, her chin held high. “Come, sit. It appears we have much to discuss.”

When they failed to acknowledge the invitation, Lexa took their stack of papers and threw it down on the middle of the desk. The effect was immediate, just as she’d intended. Both of their eyes went wide, and they passed worried looks at each other.

“I said to have a seat,” she urged. “Unless you want to see the same fate as your companions, it would be in your best interests to cooperate. I can assure you, Indra will not be nearly as generous.”

This time, they listened to the thinly veiled threat, slowly and carefully approaching the unoccupied wooden chairs by the desk. They sat down tentatively, half expecting some sort of trap. 

“What about Raven?” the blonde one asked.

Lexa looked over to her, lifting her brow. The woman was tired and could have used a good scrub, but her blue eyes were highly alert. On further examination, through the layers of smoke and dirt and sweat, Lexa actually thought her features were quite striking. She raked over the dimple at her chin and a tiny mole on her upper lip, diverting her eyes before she was caught staring.

“Raven?” Lexa asked, bemused. The blonde gestured over her shoulder to her other friend who had yet to move, save the slow rise and fall of her chest. “What about her?”

“She’s hurt. She’ll die if I don’t help her.”

Lexa linked her fingers together atop her desk, scrutinizing the blonde more closely; she must’ve had training of some sort, though she appeared quite young for a fully fledged physician.

“If the two of you don’t cooperate, saving your friend will be a moot point,” Lexa said. She knew the message sunk in when the two across from her shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “It’s obvious where you’ve come from, so let us start with this—what are your names?”

“Clarke Griffin,” the blonde said.

Lexa looked expectantly at the other. She was a tiny thing, an adult, but perhaps a few years younger than her friend. Her head dipped down to stare at the floor. “Octavia Blake,” she muttered.

“Clarke, Octavia.” Lexa nodded between them. “Tell me—what is your business with the governor of Port Royal?”

Clarke blinked several times. “We don’t know what yo—”

“There is no use lying, Clarke,” Lexa interrupted, her voice stern. Perhaps Clarke wrongfully assumed that she wasn’t literate, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. “This parcel bears your mayor’s seal and signature. It contains an official summons for the governor to attend a hearing of grievances with the king’s representatives. I take it you are those representatives?”

The way Clarke blushed and looked determinedly away from her provided all the answer Lexa needed. “What is it that you’re hoping to accomplish by having an audience with the governor? What ‘grievances’ does your city speak of?”

Clarke and Octavia were reticent to answer. They looked at each other, the floors, the walls, the windows behind Lexa’s desk—anywhere but at her. The deliberate avoidance grated on Lexa’s nerves.

“Why does it even matter?” Clarke finally said. “It’s not like it affects you or your ship at all.”

“It absolutely matters!” Lexa’s fist came down hard on her desk. Clarke and Octavia shrank away, and seeing their reaction, she forcibly recovered her cool demeanor. “Port Royal’s governor was, until quite recently, the long-time admiral of the king’s navy. Now, that very same person has been granted not only a governorship, but also authority to freely issue letters of marque in the king’s name. Those letters contain orders to hang any and all  _ suspected  _ pirates sailing in the central and south Atlantic, without a trial and without a conviction.”

Clarke was genuinely taken aback by the news. She fidgeted with the buttons on her coat and stared into her lap. “Oh.”

“Aye. ‘Oh,’ indeed. That’s why any plans to collude with Port Royal’s governor is of my utmost concern. If the intent is to expand that anti-piracy campaign, I want to know when and where it will be put into action. It puts my crew at risk, and I will not tolerate it.” There were more personal reasons for Lexa’s contempt toward the king’s former admiral, though she hadn’t spoken of these in years. She wouldn’t start doing so now.

“Look. We won’t tell her anything about your ship,” Clarke turned to her despondent friend. “Right, Octavia?”

The sound of her own name stunned Octavia from her stupor. “Absolutely.”

“See?” Clarke added with a grin, but it was too strained. Too awkward. 

The worst of it was, they were naïve enough that they were most likely being honest. Lexa wanted to believe in Clarke’s sincerity, but every bit of her experience reminded her of why that was an awful idea.

“Desperate men promise all the loyalty and gold in the world to plead their survival. That doesn’t mean words given under pain of death should be trusted,” Lexa said. “So if you won’t disclose the reasons for your mayor’s summons, how am I to know you won’t betray my crew? Your  _ word _ ? Promises mean nothing to pirates, I assure you.”

Clarke deliberated in silence. Meanwhile, Octavia sat in her seat, resigned and miserable. Lexa waited for a rebuttal, but for the longest time, none came. This was the second time today she’d offered her captives leniency, and this also the second time they’d cast generosity back in her face. Lexa didn’t relish what would come next, but it was part of the code she and her crew lived by.

“Very well.” Lexa gathered their papers and adjusted her sleeves to prepare to put her coat back on. “It appears we’re done here. I’ll just—”

“Wait!” The blonde leapt from her chair, sending it careening backward across the planked floor. The abrupt move took Lexa by surprise, and her hand instantly flew to the pistol at her waist. She didn’t draw it, but Clarke noticed the motion, her eyes going wide and apologetic.

Lexa remained stock-still. If this was a trick, she wasn’t going to be caught off her guard. Clarke’s entire body was rigid. Her mouth opened, yet she said nothing.

“Aye, Clarke? Was there something that you wanted to say?”

“Our mayor didn’t send us,” she blurted. As soon as the words came out, Clarke’s cheeks flushed red beneath the layer of soot and dirt and, she looked like she wanted to kick herself.

Lexa stared at her. If it was a lie, she hid it well. 

Lexa eased back into her leather seat, regarding Clarke carefully. The blonde hadn’t moved since her little outburst, probably too afraid or to embarrassed. But this was the information Lexa had wanted—the governor’s plans in the coming weeks and months—so when she spoke again, she was gentle.

“Explain.” Then after a pause, “Please.”

The politeness of the request surprised Clarke. She eased out of her ramrod straight posture, and she retrieved her chair from where it had toppled over on the floor. By the time she sat down again, she hardly looked nervous at all.

“We went on our own. It was my idea,” Clarke explained. Her blue eyes came alive with energy, and the fact that Lexa found herself distracted by them should have been her first warning sign. “The summons is a fake. A  _ good  _ fake, but a fake nonetheless. Since I was the most talented with a quill, I forged it myself.”

Lexa unfolded the document again, examining it more closely. Often times when people attempted forgeries, their ink would blot with the tiniest hesitation, or the lines would wobble from lack of practice. She searched for a flaw but found none. The lines were fluent, looping evenly and gracefully on the page. By all accounts the lettering was perfect—befitting a noble, even.

Lexa narrowed her eyes at Clarke, searching her.

She fetched a leaf of paper from her drawer and pushed it forward, along with a feathered quill and ink vial. There would be no references, nothing from which to copy. Clarke realized what was going on and raised an eyebrow at her.

“Prove it,” Lexa instructed.

And so Clarke did. She handled the quill with her left hand, dabbed it in ink, and after curling her wrist around the paper, scribbled out a familiar-looking script:  _ Thelonious Jaha. _

Lexa held up the two samples for comparison. They were nearly identical, from the form down to the tiny divots on the page where she’d pushed with the quill—not pulled, as a right handed person would have done.

Clarke knew the effort had been perfect too, if her sudden smug expression was any indication. “Satisfied?” she asked.

Lexa didn’t answer. “What about the this?” She showed the leather pouch to Clarke. An emblem had been pressed into the wax, which would have been harder to fake than a mere signature.

“Octavia’s brother is—was—the sheriff’s bailiff. He had keys to the mayor’s office, and he let me in so I could stamp the official seal on it before we left. Then I blackmailed Marcus to take us to Port Royal. The guards at the docks didn’t ask any questions once they saw the documents. They believed the fraud. Everyone did. That’s all it was—a sham.” Clarke sounded sadder once she said it, as if finally hearing the admission aloud made it worse. Her voice went lower. “There’s no great conspiracy, no grand plan to take down your crew. And now? If it was up to me,  _ The Ark _ would still be afloat, my friends would all be safe back home, and I wouldn’t be here arguing with you about any of this in the first place.”

The swath of lawbreaking Clarke just confessed to left Lexa momentarily speechless. Fraud, trespassing, blackmail… She and her friends might not be pirates, but they were nowhere as innocent as she’d initially believed. She was torn between wry amusement and disbelief.

After a lengthy pause, Lexa asked, “So you’re outlaws then?”

Clarke considered it for a moment. “We’d all be arrested the second we stepped foot in Newport, so… Yes, I guess we are.”

“An interesting conundrum you find yourselves in. You’re no longer welcome in your homes, and now you find yourselves unwelcome aboard my ship.”

“ _ Interesting _ isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe it,” Clarke muttered.

“Then how would you describe it?”

“Terrifying. Nerve-wracking.” Clarke paused and thought to herself. “Imagine sitting with your neck underneath the guillotine, and the executioner keeps carrying on a conversation. Ultimately, it makes no difference does it? You know that sooner or later, the blade’s going to fall anyway.”

“I suppose I’m the executioner in your little analogy, am I?”

Clarke shrugged. “Well, if the corset fits.”

Lexa didn’t wear a corset. Never had. But the words drew her eyes down to Clarke’s chest, where tightly drawn stays were just visible between the lowest fastened buttons on her shirt. Her throat went dry, and she really,  _ really  _ shouldn’t have looked. Yet somehow, she still couldn’t bring herself to tear her eyes away, and deep down, she doubted if she truly wanted to.

“Something wrong?” Clarke asked all too innocently.

Lexa snapped out of her trance. Her heart was beating hard in her chest, and she cleared her throat to cover up both her staring and the rosy blush that started to color her cheeks. Clarke gave her a knowing smirk, but Octavia was—by nothing short of a miracle—blissfully ignorant of the awkward fumbling.

Lexa made an exaggerated show of raising her chin, a physical reminder to keep her eyes well above sea level before she figuratively drowned a second time. She hardly ever flustered, not in battle nor around women, but she surprised even herself when she went ahead and completely lost her filter, letting her thoughts spill into actual words.

“I don’t want to kill you, Clarke.” The blonde visibly jolted, and even Octavia, who’d been largely aloof during the discussion, turned toward her in blatant disbelief. It wasn’t a lie, but suddenly Lexa felt as if she’d revealed too much too soon.

“You don’t?” Clarke eyed her dubiously, but there was no way for Lexa to take it back now.

“I don’t.” Hoping to provide some cover for herself, she added, “I don’t want to kill any of you.”

“Then why all this? You know your crew is out there sharpening their swords just to kill us.”

“My crew’s livelihoods depend on the spoils we win aboard this ship. I’m their captain, and it’s my job to protect them from any dangers. That includes outsiders, whose loyalties and risks are uncertain.”

“You think we’re dangerous?” Clarke asked, taken aback.

“You still haven’t told me why you’ve sought an audience with the governor of Port Royal,” Lexa reminded her. “So until then—yes, that makes you dangerous.” Her statement carried with it an unspoken invitation to explain. Clarke either didn’t notice, or she was deliberately stalling. As she resumed picking at the buttons on her coat, Lexa started to suspect the latter. “Why don’t you tell me what it is you intend to discuss with the governor?”

A beat of silence passed. “I can’t,” Clarke finally muttered, though her  _ can’t  _ sounded more like a  _ won’t _ . “I’m sorry.”

Lexa regarded her closely, noticing the pained frown that wrinkled at her brow. Whatever her reasons for withholding, she was still clearly conflicted. “You know this makes things difficult, Clarke. My crew…”

“I know.”

“Do you really though?” Lexa pressed. She’d told the truth about not wanting to kill Clarke, but that was all for naught if her lenience pushed her crew toward mutiny. She wouldn’t risk open revolt on account of her conscience.

Clarke’s eyes met hers with a familiar kind of sadness. She whispered a broken, “I do,” and then she knew that yes… Clarke did truly understand.

She’d resigned herself to the possibility of death: flogging, hanging, a thousand cuts, or whatever other sadistic method her crew might devise. That hopeless acceptance stirred Lexa’s memory. A plan brewed in Lexa’s mind, a way to hopefully appease both sides. She hadn’t proposed anything quite like it before. Indra would probably tear the sails clean off the yardarms if she knew what she was considering right now.

Some years ago, Lexa had been in Clarke’s shoes: scared, alone, and uncertain about her future. A chance meeting with Anya had given her a chance to prove her worth, and Lexa had taken the opportunity and thrived, exceeding all expectations. She had no idea what Clarke’s intentions were, nor her potential, but perhaps given more time, she could find out.

“What if…” Lexa trailed off, frowning as she thought. Clarke glanced up at her hopefully. “How about we strike a deal? What say you?”

Clarke nodded eagerly. “I’m listening.”

“You will disclose your intentions with the governor—”

“But—”

“I’m not finished,” Lexa told her. “You will tell me your plans, but only after our ship next makes port. Until then, you would have my protection, the crew would be mollified by the promise of your secrets, and I would know more about the governor’s plans. You’d then be free to travel at your leisure.”

“And if I didn’t tell you?”

Lexa’s expression went dark. “I think you know what would happen, Clarke.”

“I guess I do.” Clarke first mulled over the offer alone, then she and Octavia shared some sort of odd, unspoken conversation using only head-shaking, eye-rolling, and hand gestures. Whatever argument they’d been having came to an abrupt halt when Clarke waved a hand in Octavia’s face and turned back toward Lexa. “This arrangement—Raven and Octavia would be included too?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“Then it’s a deal.” Clarke brightened, holding her hand out across the desk. Lexa unfastened her small carving knife from her vest. “What are you doing?”

“A blood oath,” Lexa said. “As a measure of good faith. If broken, the punishment will be so severe, the deceiver will rue the day they were ever born.” Lexa dragged the blade across her right palm until it gathered a small pool of red. She handed over the knife so Clarke could do the same, but she looked at the weapon doubtfully.

After a moment, Clarke eventually accepted the knife. She clumsily placed a matching cut along her own palm, releasing her breath in a hiss.

They grasped each other’s cut palms, their blood mingling where their hands pressed together. The contact brought with it a strange feeling in Lexa’s stomach, and she was too mesmerized to pull it away. So too, it seemed, was Clarke. Time stretched on for nearly a minute, and neither of them moved.

Octavia politely cleared her throat.

The interruption stunned both of them, and they yanked their hands away like they’d been burned. If not for the pleasantness of the tingling in her palm, Lexa might have thought that she had.

“Right,” Lexa said awkwardly. “I will inform my crew. My quartermaster will have you set up in the crew quarters on the second level. Do either of you have any other belongings with you?” She only realized how silly the question sounded after it left her mouth. They’d been prisoners, not travelers.

Clarke’s face fell. “I did,” she admitted. “But it got stolen before we were locked up on  _ La Trinidad _ .”

Lexa nodded. That sounded about as expected, but if Clarke had possessed anything valuable, it might have found its way aboard the _R_ __e_ gium Maris _ after the ship had been raided. “What was it?”

“A gold and ivory pocket watch. It belonged to my—” Clarke hesitated, “—it belonged to someone I care about.” A blush crept up her neck and onto her cheeks.

“Aye. Then I shall keep an eye out for it,” Lexa said. “If it turns up, I will let you know at once.” Even if the watch was somewhere aboard the ship, the odds of it resurfacing were slim. Pirates were notoriously greedy, and a small, valuable trinket would be tempting to pocket and steal before handing it over for shares.

Despite the long odds, Clarke nodded appreciatively. “Thank you Lexa,” she said. The way her name rolled of Clarke’s tongue made something inside her ache.

“That’s ‘Captain’ aboard this ship.” Lexa stood from her seat, shrugging into her coat and refastening her belt scabbard. She rounded her desk and waved for Clarke and Octavia to follow her outside, but she halted before opening the doors, turning to face Clarke. “And you’re welcome,” she said softly.

Clarke smiled, and Lexa’s cheeks burned.

A slightly larger crowd was gathered outside once they left.  Lincoln stood nearby with blood splattered about his clothes and face, awaiting orders, and Gustus stood by his side. Quint stepped forward and toyed with the hilt of his cutlass like he’d been fantasizing about all the ways he might possibly use it.

“What news, Captain?” Indra said. She eyed Clarke and Octavia menacingly, and the two shuffled more behind Lexa to shield themselves.

Lexa raise her chin high, preparing herself for their reactions. She knew each of the sailors before her well, so she already suspected how each would take the news. Some would be grudgingly accepting, the others… not so much.

“We’ve reached an agreement. A blood oath,” Lexa announced. Indra’s expression darkened, while Quint looked around, somewhat confused. “Gustus, there’s an injured women in my cabin. Please take her to Nyko down in the infirmary.”

“Aye, Captain.” The bearded man nodded and disappeared into the seamaster’s cabin. When he emerged, he was cradling Raven’s unconscious body with one arm under her knees and the other beneath her shoulders.

“Lincoln, I want you to show Clarke and Octavia to their quarters on the second level.” At this, Indra seethed, and Quint let out a growl of protest, as she’d expected.

Lincoln merely tilted his head to the side. “Captain?”

“They possess information that is valuable to us. For their own protection, they will remain aboard our ship—as guests—” she clarified, to much bemoaning, “—until we make port at Tortuga. If you choose to ignore the oath I’ve taken, you’ll be serving your next three months with the swabbies.”

Indra’s lips were set in a hard line, and her brows furrowed together at the announcement. She wasn’t pleased, but she had restraint and knew better than to outwardly retaliate. Not like Quint. He marched right up to Octavia and Clarke and shoved his dirty, unshaven face directly into theirs. They backed away as far as they could, stopping only when they ran up against the cabin’s outer wall.

Quint’s hand moved toward the hilt of his blade. “I oughta’ cut ye both to pieces and fly your bloody heads as my banner.” Clarke and Octavia trembled. Lexa didn’t know if his outburst was for show, or if he’d actually try to follow through on his threat. Quint was unpredictable like that in the worst of ways.

“Quint, stand down!” Lexa shouted.

He ignored the order. “‘Tis a real pity,” he sneered instead. “Pretty little wenches like you? Such a waste.” He started to pull the blade free from his scabbard. Clarke and Octavia’s eyes went wide.

Lexa’s reflexes were quicker. The moment she’d seen his fingers twitch, she’d drawn her own weapon and lunged forward to intervene. He may have excelled at woodworking, but Lexa was the superior fighter. Her left hand secured his forearm overhead while her right brought the blade of her cutlass down against the back of his heel. Her stroke found its mark, and Quint’s leg gave out from beneath him. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, dropping his dagger and letting out a loud yelp.

Clarke and Octavia released their panicked gasps. Even Lincoln and Indra startled at the turn of events.

Quint’s tantrum had earned a few onlookers, who were watching with rapt attention. They didn’t seem all that upset by Quint’s downfall—he wasn’t very well-liked outside his posse—but they were visibly shaken.

Their captain had struck down one of their own to protect an outsider, and they didn’t know what to make of it. They waited, confused by what they’d just seen. Lexa bent down to retrieve Quint’s weapon before standing up and passing a glance over all of them.

“Let this be a lesson,” she raised her voice enough to be heard at both the bow and the aft. “I am captain of this ship. Anyone who cannot respect that—” she paused, turning her gaze down on Quint, “—will be dealt with accordingly.” Murmurs broke out amongst all the onlookers.

Lexa borrowed one of the swabbies’ rags to wipe the sliver of Quint’s blood from her blade. She normally wouldn’t have bothered, but at this particular moment, she wanted to rid herself completely of his lingering presence.

“What do you want me to do with him?” Lincoln asked.

“Take him to the brig. A week down there ought to cure him of his insolence.”

The injury had sapped some of Quint’s bravado, but he hadn’t lost his defiant streak. He sat in the shadow Lexa cast over him and bored hatred into her with his eyes. Now he knew better than to act on whatever sinister thoughts filled his imagination, but there was no mistaking the look on his face:

Lexa had just gained an enemy for life.

* * *

 

 

It was almost an hour before the ship returned to any semblance of normalcy. The crew was still on edge, talking quietly amongst themselves whenever they believed Lexa wasn’t looking. She held her shoulders back and her head high, letting them know it didn’t affect her.

The sun would be gone soon, marking the start of their festivities, but Lexa was happy to stand alone atop the quarterdeck. That is, until her first mate found her. Indra approached wordlessly, as she always did. She stood at Lexa’s right side and stared into the sunset. Though she said nothing for the longest time, Lexa could tell there was a torrent burgeoning behind her forced calmness.

She allowed the silence to settle between until the sun fully dipped below the horizon. The kegs of ale and rum were being rolled out for the evening, and once the celebrations started, Lexa knew she wouldn’t have another opportunity to speak in private.

“You disagree with my decision,” Lexa said simply, followed by a heavy pause.

“As ever, I have my concerns, Captain.”

“About the oath or about the way I handled Quint?”

“Both.” The tone was uncharacteristically short, and Lexa turned toward her.

“Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly started having sympathy for Quint, Indra. You’ve been saying for years I ought to replace him. Have you changed your mind?”

“Captain, I enjoy having Quint aboard this ship as much as I enjoy the crabs,” Indra scoffed. “Which suffice it to say, is not at all.”

“Aye, and once we’re ashore, he’ll be long gone. So then what’s got your knickers in a twist?”

Her first mate hesitated before answering. “As long as this ship has been under your command, we have flown under the red flag—no quarter for survivors.”

“Indra, if you have a question, ask it plainly.”

“You’ve favored the bilge rats, even at the expense of one of our own. Make no mistake, Quint is as vile a rogue as ever lived, but our crew is already anxious. They will question your decision to keep them aboard, especially if they fear being shafted in the process.”

“Then let them voice their concerns to my face,” Lexa said. “I shall remind them why I am captain and they are not.”

Indra quieted at the declaration. Lexa had only fought to defend her post once in the last eight years, slaying a muscled brute three times her size to retain control of her ship and subdue a mutiny. Back then, they’d accused her of being compromised by personal whims, that she was prioritizing her own desires over those of her crew. Indra had been around long enough to have witnessed the near collapse of Lexa’s captaincy firsthand, and the way she was looking at Lexa once again carried the weight of that warning.

“This is not the same as before, Indra,” Lexa assured her.

“If you say so, Captain.” Indra might not agree, but her loyalty wouldn’t waver. Her devotion was a rarity amongst not only pirates, but people in general. She waited until the area around them cleared. “May I ask one question?”

“Of course.”

Indra worked her jaw muscles before speaking. “Your captives… Should they dishonor their oath—if they withhold or feed us false messages—how do you intend to handle their betrayal?”

The penalty for breaking a blood oath was death. At the reminder, the image of Clarke, broken and still and lifeless, sprang unbidden to Lexa’s mind, and it made something squeeze inside her chest.

“I will honor the blood oath.” Her resolution was strong despite the battle warring within her conscience.

Indra said nothing. When it came to Lexa, she knew one single truth: Her captain would retain her honor, even if it killed her.

 

 


End file.
